


Yellow Brick Road

by KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic, victoriaandalbert



Series: MHEA 2020 Yellow Brick Road [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Sweet Home Alabama, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But MidWestern, But a Happy Ending (I Swear), Canon Compliant Backstories, Dating While Separated, Divorce, Dysfunctional Family, Established Relationship, Film Adaptation, Found Family, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Childhood Trauma, Implied/referenced childhood abuse, Just messy situations on all fronts, Legal Loopholes as Plot Crutches, Lots of Intense Confrontations, M/M, Miscommunication, Moral Ambiguity, Pining, References to Depression, Second and third and hundredth chances, Sex in the Epilogue, and Everyone is Queer, heavy use of profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 116,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26289487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic/pseuds/KatyTheInspiredWorkaholic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/victoriaandalbert/pseuds/victoriaandalbert
Summary: Eliot Waugh has everything he could ever want. He's an up-and-coming fashion designer on the edge of fame, with his own brand and an amazing crew, a NYC apartment, his face on magazine covers, the best friend and mentor anyone could ever ask for - and a boyfriend that's too perfect for words. But the best part? No one knows where he came from, or who he was before. His past has been buried for seven long years, and Eliot planned on keeping it that way.Until his boyfriend proposed, and it ended up in every gossip column in New York City.To keep his perfect life just the way he likes it, Eliot has to return to the one place he never wanted to see again, and take care of some long overdue, unfinished business. Hisstill legalmarriage to his high school sweetheart, Quentin Coldwater.
Relationships: Kady Orloff-Diaz/Julia Wicker, Margo Hanson/Alice Quinn, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Rupert Chatwin/Eliot Waugh
Series: MHEA 2020 Yellow Brick Road [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923055
Comments: 104
Kudos: 116
Collections: Magicians Happy Ever After





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my MHEA fic that I have babied and slaved over for the past six months. I am so excited to share it with you, and _so nervous_ , but mostly excited. It has been a serious labor of love between myself and my insanely talented partner-in-crime, Olishka, who has created a whole slew of graphics and gifsets and a fanmix of all the songs we've been obsessing over the whole journey. I've included some of them embedded throughout the fic, but please go check out all the amazing creations she made for this story! [Click here for Art!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26454040/chapters/64456921) I was so lucky to be paired with someone who immediately clicked with my vision and enhanced it by 10,000. I will have a much longer love note for her in my end credits, along with disclaimers and other acknowledgements, but I love you so much dear thank you for being so incredible. 
> 
> Two things before we get going:
> 
> 1\. _PLEASE_. Mind. The. Tags. This is... not always a happy story. Lots of yelling and confrontations happen, I got a little lost in the details making sure I didn't erase some very important key traits for a lot of characters. Which means - I very much failed in the rom-com aspect of this challenge, I half expected to get tossed out of the collection, but it does have a supremely happy ending. One of my favorite things I've ever written in my entire fanfiction career is this Epilogue. We just have about 100k words of angst and yelling and sadness to wade through first. Not to mention how I stuck very close to some characters' canonical backstories; mainly Eliot's. I probably could have listed a hundred other tags, so if you have ANY questions about trigger warnings, side characters, mentioned/passing side ships, or any content whatsoever please feel free to reach out to me in my twitter/tumblr DM's or the comments. Links in my bio.
> 
> 2\. One point of confusion that's been brought to my attention. Eliot's fiancè is Rupert Sebastian Chatwin. Depending on your own personal views, you see a certain face when you hear that name. I, myself, have gone through a roller-coaster since I started plotting this in February; and I almost recast him a couple times - but I really wanted to keep the Chatwin siblings as my NYC royalty and keep that Chatwin middle-name rebellious streak strong. So this is what I did. In my fic, our character goes by Sebastian. In original fiction readers have the advantage of keeping their mental image of a character subjective, to an extent, and in fanfiction we rarely get that chance. A character's name is directly correlated to a particular actor/actress or image because of the source material. What I aimed to do here is give the power back to the people, and not stunt my creativity in the process. You hear Sebastian and want to picture Sean McGuire, as is canon, please go head. If you'd like to use my fancasting I chose for this story, Matthew Goode, please feel free. If you have your own idea for Rupert Chatwin that is special and personal to you, _please_ use that. You, as the reader, have your own experience when you read and it belongs to no one else. I hope that clears up my creative choices.
> 
> Tbh, if anything makes you rage quit this story it won't be Rupert Sebastian Chatwin - it'll probably be Eliot. God, I'm nervous for this but I really hope you all enjoy the crazy ride we're about to take you on. This fic's foundation is pretty much scene-for-scene the plotline of _Sweet Home Alabama_ , and man is it a messy story when you break it down to bare bones. Please do not hold back if you feel the need to scream at me in the comments, because I def deserve it. This is also my first time writing an entire fic before posting, but that's a whole other thing for me. Crazy stuff. 
> 
> Sorry for the long author notes, more at the end, check out ALL THE ART and thank you to my betas and Maii and the mods for putting this all together, and my gorgeous project partner. Love you babe. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoy it. <3

-

Eliot Waugh met Quentin Coldwater when they were only six years old. 

Neither had known that the very edges of the Waugh farmland backed up to the acres and acres of white oak forest owned by the Coldwater family, and before that day Eliot had never left the farm on his own. But desperate circumstances had him tumbling through the broken beams of fencing past where the cornfields ended and racing into the forest as fast as he could. The towering trees were so much larger up close, but not as dense as he had hoped. He could hear his brothers running after him, along with a couple of neighboring boys belonging to the wheat farmers on their Eastern border. It was really the neighbors and Alex that had been chasing him with malicious intent. His oldest brother, Dan, was trying to stop them - he hoped - and Nathan was mostly shouting about how angry their father was going to be when he saw they had all ditched their chores. 

Just what he needed, another terrible thing to look forward to. 

“We aren’t supposed to be in the woods!” Nathan shouted at them, and El had managed to look over his shoulder in time to duck and dodge an outstretched arm from their neighbor kid with too many sun-freckles and dirt on his nose.

“Hold still!” he snapped, but Eliot turned so sharply his sneakers skid in the mud as he pivoted in a different direction. Out of the wooded area and up the rolling green hills that they probably also weren’t supposed to be in.

“DON’T STOP EL!” Daniel hollered, and the encouragement spurred him forward as he tripped and stumbled up the hill. His shoes had no traction, after being passed down to every other Waugh son before finally landing in his disdainful possession. He could hear the boys bearing down on him, gaining on him, and his breathing hitched as he did his best not to tear up in fear. All this because he’d shrieked too loudly at a handful of worms shoved down the back of his shirt. Then they tried to make him _eat_ one, and he’d been running ever since. Now they were just chasing him to chase him, and Eliot did not want to find out what happened when they caught him. Because they were going to catch him. He was tiny and long-limbed, and they all played soccer together and now all he could imagine was his head being kicked around like that black and white checkered ball.

He scrambled up the slick grass and couldn’t help looking back once more as he made it to the top of the hill - they were _right behind him_ \- only to run smack into another kid. Knocking the wind out of both of them.

He’d appeared out of nowhere, wide dark eyes and a surprised shout as they tangled together in a heap. Toppling over, with all the force and silence of a tree falling in the woods, and then gravity took over and Eliot couldn’t stop the crash and tumble. They hurtled down the other side of the steep hill, Eliot ending up heels over head while the shorter boy managed to roll sideways to a stop like he’d done it a million times before. He sat up with grass stains on his knees and palms, a deep red mark that would soon bruise on his cheek from Eliot’s chin, and bits of dove weed stuck in his short brown hair. Wide-eyed, mouth slack, snagging a book that had dropped to the grass like it was more precious than the state of his face. Eliot remembered every second of that moment for many years to come, and the excruciating pain that followed as his shoe snagged a root and jerked him to a stop. Violently, with a vicious twist that left him screaming bloody murder and crying.

They had never met before that day, not even in school, yet the other boy rushed to his aide without hesitation. He was the first to reach for Eliot despite his fearful hysterics, to help him pull his leg free, to try and comfort him “it’s okay, it’s going to be okay, help is coming” and Eliot was pretty sure he screamed something about the boys running towards them weren’t there to help. But this kid, the same boy who would grow up to have more social anxiety than one body could contain, held on to him and told the bigger boys to get a grown-up - and he was so _brave_ . Eliot had never, ever felt that brave; and he certainly didn’t feel it as he cried and kept his face buried in the other boy’s sweater so he wouldn’t have to see his brothers’ faces. He wouldn’t even let Daniel pry him off the other for a good fifteen minutes. He only felt stronger when he was holding onto the mysterious boy that had abandoned his _Fillory and Further_ book in the grass so he could hug Eliot tightly, ignoring the damp and snot that was seeping into the knitted yarn on his shoulder. The only thing holding Eliot together at six years old. 

The boy followed them home when Dan carried Eliot back to the farmhouse, worried and unsure with how frightened he'd been of the boys chasing him. No one bothered to stop him either, Alex and Nathan running ahead to seek help. Mrs. Waugh didn't even blink at the new face among the group. Their parents were used to random kids showing up with his brothers, but never for their youngest son. Then Eliot demanded that he come with them to the hospital, not wanting the other boy out of his sight, and would not be calmed or reasoned with otherwise. His mother had been so surprised Eliot had out right asked for what he wanted, stubbornly holding his ground that he couldn’t even stand on in that moment, that she let him. It was the first small victory Eliot had had in a long time, and he held the boy’s hand the whole time as he sniffled and whimpered in the back of their minivan. Curled up on his side on the bench seat with no care for the world around him further than the boy that had saved him from his brothers’ further torment. 

“I’m Eliot,” he finally told him, his hand sweaty and shaking but still holding on sharply to the point he knew it had to be uncomfortable for the other boy.

But he just smiled shyly, looking at Eliot’s face and then away like he couldn’t talk to him while looking in his eyes. “I’m Quentin.” Nervousness finally began to bloom and bruise on his expression, and Eliot didn’t want to see that either. He laid his head down on the seat next to where Quentin sat and asked him to read him his book. “I-I don’t know all the words. I’m only in first grade.”

“Why do you carry it around then?”

“Because I like to look at the pictures. I know the story by heart,” Quentin mumbled shyly.

“Can you tell that?” He was squeezing his eyes tight, the burning in his leg so painful he was starting to cry again. “Please?”

“Okay,” Quentin told him, quick and quiet as if the tears were his fault. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

Eliot shook his head. “Just hurts.” 

Quentin squeezed his hand, and didn’t pull it away even when Eliot rested his cheek on their hands. It was a thirty minute ride to the nearest hospital, but with Quentin’s voice above him telling him tales of castles and magic and a world hidden inside a clock - somewhere far away where his life would never be able to touch him - Eliot barely noticed the passing of time. He rolled to look up at Quentin as he read, at his expressions as he turned each page, at the joy and excitement from just a glimpse of the fantasy in his storybook. Eliot could never remember being that passionate, that in love, with anything. Ever. But he wanted to be.

The day Eliot met Quentin Coldwater was the day he realized there was something else beyond his family’s farm. That there was life and adventure out there just waiting to be discovered. To be _lived_. Just waiting for someone to reach out and take it, like the children in Quentin's storybook. It was the first day Eliot dared to dream of a future, or possibilities, usually foreign concepts to a child so young. He wanted a future as bright as the spark in the other boy’s eyes. 

Bright, and beautiful, and just for him.

-

“Come on! It’s just up here!” Quentin smiled that uncontrollable smile again, the one that couldn’t be contained and practically buzzed louder than the honey bees hovering in the fields. Gathering the last bit of pollen before fleeing from the thunderheads rolling in from the west. Q was leading him closer towards the darkening sky, but at enough of a tangent Eliot knew he wasn’t dragging him up to the top of the tallest hill in the county just to see storm clouds. Or at least, he hoped not, his leg was starting to ache where he’d broken it the year before. 

“Q slow down! How much further?” he complained all in one breath, the two boys practically climbing the steep expanse on their hands and knees. Grabbing the grass to help propel them forward until Quentin finally reached the top of the hill and spun around in search of whatever Eliot ‘had to come see right now!’ “We gotta get home soon or my dad’s gonna kill me.” He didn’t know what was so important, but the storm was rumbling so deep and loud Eliot could feel it in his chest. The wind had started to pick up, too, and if they got caught out there he wasn’t sure either of them would make it to the third grade. 

“There! There it is! Eliot look!” Quentin pulled on Eliot’s arm and turned him towards the last rays of the sun breaking through the dark clouds overhead. “Look! It’s a castle, a real life castle. Over there on that hill!” He pointed out at the horizon, leaning in close to make sure Eliot could see exactly where it was - as if he could miss it standing there within the rolling hills of rural Indiana. “It looks just like Whitespire!” 

“Wow,” Eliot breathed out, still panting for breath from the run and eyes wide at the sight before them. It looked exactly like a page in Quentin’s fairy tale books. The white stone glowed golden in the fading sunlight, lighting up the structure like a paper lantern; but it was an honest to God castle. Hidden in the foothills three miles from his family’s farm. “What is it doing here?”

“I don’t know,” Quentin said, close to laughing again. A look of pure wonder on his face as he stared at the castle and his mind churned just imagining all the reasons, Eliot was surprised the ideas didn’t spill out of his ears and onto the grass at their feet. “But I want to live there.”

Eliot did laugh at that. “Me too. I bet it’s got a million rooms, and servants, and dungeons.”

“Best hide and seek game, ever,” Quentin said, the two giggling at the thought. They sat down on the grass there, barely aware anymore to the growing thunderstorm at their back, just watching the castle slowly sink back into the shadows of the hills around it - disappearing from sight as if it really was made of magic. “We should live there, you and me.”

“What, now?” Eliot asked, something sparking in the back of his mind that made his heart skip in his chest. “Like… running away?” He’d thought about it, but never said the words out loud. He’d been too scared to even think about voicing it.

“No, not like that,” Quentin shook his head, pulling out strands of grass by his tennis shoes. “But we should live there together, one day. We’d have to get married, first.”

“Why?” Eliot scrunched his nose.

“Mom always says people should be married before they live together,” Q shrugged, not quite sure of the reason himself - but it’s what the grownups said. Eliot had heard his Mom say something similar before.

“We can’t get _married_.”

“Why not?” Q demanded. “Don’t you want to?”

“We _can’t_ get married, Q! We’re seven,” Eliot was definitely laughing at him, but not in the way that made the other boy tuck his head down and hide his face like when the other kids laughed in school. Eliot bumped his shoulder as he hugged him to make sure he knew that.

“Later, then,” Quentin insisted, not looking up at him. But Eliot could see the smile he was trying to hide as he did indeed keep his head ducked down. Eliot shook his head, the whole conversation was just silly to him. They should be more focused on the purples and greys bruising the sky surrounding them, kicking up the breeze in the tallgrass they sat in. He watched the rumbling clouds as they slowly rolled towards them across the great expanse of sky, tousling his curling dark hair as it did.

“Why would you want to be married to me for, anyway?” Eliot couldn’t imagine marrying anyone. He’d been to his cousin’s wedding the summer before, still wearing a cast and hobbling around on one crutch - it was _not_ a good time. But the flowers and decoration had been really pretty, he supposed. He wouldn’t mind a big party like that, all for him and Q. One day.

Quentin didn’t answer him right away, and still wouldn’t look up or towards him. “So I can kiss you anytime I want.”

With a surprised blink, Eliot tore his eyes from the thunderclouds and stared at his best friend. He hadn’t known Quentin wanted to kiss him. Why hadn’t he said so? Eliot hadn’t kissed anyone before, besides his mom and grandma, but they didn’t count. Quentin would, though. He opened his mouth to say something - he wasn’t even sure what - when a deafening boom rocked the cornfields and had the two boys jumping out of their skin. Huddled together in the grassy hills, wide-eyes snapping to their left as a crack of lightning broke from the clouds and struck the forest a quarter mile from where they sat. Eliot shrieked, and he was pretty sure Quentin did too, as they threw themselves flat on the ground. 

“WE GOTTA GO!” Eliot screamed, grabbing Quentin’s hand and trying to drag him back down the hill, but Quentin dug in his heels and pulled Eliot the other direction.

“No! We could get hit! This way, come on!” And he dragged Eliot down the hillside towards the White Oak forest that belonged to his daddy and grandpa. Thunder boomed again, and the boys screeched again as they dove past the treeline to hide among the tall trunks. “We need to find where it hit!”

“Why!?” Eliot screamed back over the rumbling storm.

“Lightning never strikes the same place twice!” Q shouted back, keeping a tight grip on Eliot’s hand as he led him through the forest. They could smell smoke, and something tangy and electric they wouldn’t recognize as ozone, and finally heard the crackling of a fire. “Shh, hear that?” Q said, as if Eliot was being louder than the storm overhead. “Over here.” Hand in hand they finally found where the lightning had struck: a tall, old, White Oak tree almost smack dab in the center of the forest.

The lightning had split clean down the center of the tree, and from within the scar of the strike they could see the entire inside was on _fire_. But the bark kept the flames contained, like a bonfire within the tree, and Eliot watched with his mouth agape as the flames roared and burned straight through the darkening night. White powdery ash falling to the roots like snow at their feet.

The sound of that fire snapping and burning away the oak tree from the inside out would echo in his dreams and nightmares for the rest of his life. 

\--


	2. i. New York City

-

_20 years Later_

-

Eliot jolted awake, slumped over a white silk gazar dress with a sewing needle still in one hand and a smattering of Swarovski crystal beads stuck to the side of his face. The drumming of rain pelting against the warehouse windows had lulled him to sleep, and only when a crack of thunder broke through the white noise had his eyes snapped open. He sat up from where he’d passed out at his worktable to look over his shoulder at the storm pelting the window - and goddamnit it was starting to get light outside. 

“Why the hell did you let me sleep?!”

Barely anyone blinked at his outburst, the dozen or so people milling about around the long row of work tables were used to his special brand of ambitions-driven panic by then. Ten months of constant hard work, and basically no sleep the past two weeks, left them zombified while they stitched sequins and trimmed hems until their fingers bled. His entire collection was designer (haute couture inspired) gowns and suits that were decorated within an inch of their life with gemstones and embroidery and furs that combined cost more than most luxury cars - and required just as much engineering. Especially when he had multiple people working under him to make the visions come to life. He desperately needed another month and three more pairs of hands to execute what he wanted done. The last thing he could possibly allow was _sleep_. 

“So we wouldn’t have to hear that particular octave your voice hits after 3am,” his lead assistant Marina droned, stalking up with a coffee cup in hand and shoving it his direction. “Wasn’t expecting that weird Midwestern drawl, though. Sweet dreams?” Her resting bitch face melted into a mocking smirk as she took a long sip of her own coffee. 

“Fuck, what did I say?” Eliot whined, not needing his underlings having any form of blackmail on him. He drank with all of them. That was ammo he did not want thrown back in his face once they all fell into a fountain of champagne and vodka after Fashion Week was over in 18 hours. Jesus Christ, it was 18 hours away. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. No time. Chop chop, don’t you have a million other things to do?”

“Not as much as you, love,” Marina chimed as she spun on a very sharp spiked heel that clicked across the cement floor when she walked. 

“I hate you so much,” Eliot told her, then inhaled the contents of the cup like it was pure oxygen. A delightful burn that was _not_ all coffee laced his tongue, and he couldn’t help but sigh gratefully. “You’re getting a raise.”

“Bitch, I better be.”

They worked long into the morning, packing up every intricate masterpiece into garment bags and preparing all their portable supplies for the tents at Mercedes Benz Fashion Week. Eliot anticipated every single outfit was going to need additional fitting alterations before he let them step out onto that runway, his standards were stupidly high and he knew it. But this was his first fashion show to an audience of this caliber, and he had gotten there _without_ Margo’s help - for once. His mentor since he’d arrived fresh off the farm in NYC had held his hand for far too long, so this time he’d done everything on his own. With only a few advice sessions over brunch and a number of mimosas, but not enough that he can’t say he’d done this one himself. Now he just needed to make it through the next 24 hours without having a heart attack, the stress was eating him alive and he was surviving purely on coffee and whiskey. 

Once everything was in a van and being carted off to Bryant Park, Eliot released his busy worker bees to go pass out for a few hours before the show. He made it explicitly clear what would happen if they weren’t standing by his side by 2pm that day, and Marina backed him up with a steady glare and a few choice words. Then she proceeded to drag him out by his hair to go home and do the same. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep, he knew it, but he did need to shower and change and look presentable to the public before his picture was taken a million times that afternoon. 

With the sun breaking over the tops of the skyscrapers, lightening up the damp streets far below after the storm, Eliot walked the ten blocks from his work studio to his rundown fifth story apartment. Rubbing his face and soaking in the blur of grey concrete and faded graffiti on the abandoned storefronts he passed. The work space he’d found used to be an old bread company back in the 50’s, and he bought it for a song the year before with hopes the neighborhood wouldn’t deteriorate around him while he tried to make a name for himself. His entire image was something seven years in the making, seven long - somehow fantastical and wild - and tiring years. He’d gone from Parson’s honor graduate, to Margo Hanson’s intern/personal bitch (and future best friend for life), to the lead designer of his very own label. Who knew what seven more years would do?

Hopefully a nice apartment Uptown and a storefront near 5th Avenue, but you know - dream big, right? He already spent more on dress materials in a month than he did on rent for the year. No one could say that Eliot Waugh didn’t give absolutely everything he had for his dream future. 

He didn’t mind his neighborhood, though; it had done well for him since he’d moved there from Indiana. Eliot could just feel himself outgrowing it, trying to burst from the seams of his impeccably tailored dress shirts and signature waistcoat vest and tie. New York itself fit Eliot like a glove, even the more worn-in parts, like the bodega stores that rolled up their chained cages with the rising sun and the street-sweeping vehicles circling the last of the hidden roads polishing what they could. It was such a long way from the spaced out strip malls of suburban Indiana that Eliot couldn’t contain the smirk of a smile that slipped out, tickling his face with it’s lightness. He was a New Yorker now. Fuck Indiana.

Three more blocks and five flights of stairs later Eliot pushed his way into his apartment trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. Again, no _time_ ; he needed to be walking out the door in four hours pressed and clean and ready for the most important day of his life. He didn’t even see the rose petals on the ground at first, trailing all the way down his foyer hallway and into his living room, but he certainly smelled them.

“What the _hell_ -” He carefully walked around the petals and peered around the corner of his short hallway into his living room, and his eyebrows shot up at the sight. There were roses _everywhere_. At least two dozen different styles of bouquets and arrangements littered every available surface: tabletops, couch cushions, the mantel over his decommissioned fireplace, and a sea of petals trailed all over his carpet and back into the bedroom where they pooled on the bed excessively. The display had him spinning in slow circles to make sure he was actually seeing what was there and not hallucinating. But honestly, something this extravagant could only be one person -

“Sebastian, you absolute sap.” Who even _did_ this kind of thing in real life? This wasn’t what Eliot had expected when he had given the man a key. They didn’t even come to his apartment - ever. 

He finally caught site of the card sitting on the table, too dumbstruck (and grinning like an idiot, who was he kidding - the stupid romantic dorky gestures did it for him) to even reach for his phone and confront his boyfriend. “Oh, you’ve got to be joking.” By how thick the center fold of the card was, this was definitely an audio card. “Please don’t be a song.” He opened it, and bless his fucking heart it was _not_ a Barry White song. He would have just died there on the cheap off-white carpet and broke up with Sebastian through text message.

“ _Hello dear, hopefully you’re hearing this and not drowning in rose petals. But I couldn’t resist. There’s one for every moment I caught myself thinking of you last night, toiling away at your masterpiece collection_ ,” Rupert ‘Sebastian’ Chatwin’s charming forced British accent echoed tinley from the card, and Eliot bit his lip to keep from smiling wider. The idiot didn’t deserve it, he was obviously not a real person and actually a storybook character sent to distract him. They’d only been dating a year, or almost a year, and he’d been like this from the beginning. It helped he could afford to do so. The Chatwins were basically New York royalty; his younger brother Martin had been elected mayor the year before, and after a very long stint at Cambridge and a 10 year backpacking trip across the pond Sebastian had come home only to be fast-tracked to the Secretary of Housing (courtesy of his brother, Sebastian is sure - he’s still very bitter about it), and their sister Jane was the district attorney downtown. She got out, so she says, but the Chatwins were very much New York old money and all the children were trust fund babies. Plus the inheritance, after their parents had passed away years previous. They did with their fortunes as they pleased. Sebastian had no qualms about spoiling Eliot rotten, and Eliot wasn’t about to tell him to stop anytime soon. 

Eliot rubbed a crimson rose petal between his fingers, admiring the softness but also how crisp they still felt. Freshest money could buy, he was sure. “ _Listen, break a leg tonight. I’ll be there to watch the show and greet you backstage. No more roses, promise.”_

“Liar,” Eliot said to himself, and the wide smile finally slipped. He was grinning so much he couldn’t help but laugh a little at the wonderful absurdity of his life. 

“ _I know you’re exhausted, but it’s going to be magnificent. You’re magnificent. I love you. See you tonight, goodbye.”_ His words became rushed towards the end, the time running out in the card Eliot was sure, but Sebastian paused before telling him he loved him - punctuating the words all the more. 

Fuck it all, Eliot loved that gorgeous sap, too. He _felt_ loved, that’s for sure. He’d have to try and hold on to that to maintain his sanity for the next 10 hours. 

Today was going to change his life forever. 

-

Backstage was chaos. Pure anarchy, and it was terrible in all the most _incredible_ ways - but Eliot was afraid his heart was going to burst before the show even began. From excitement or fear, who’s to say at that point. His entire crew was wearing soft fitted **Eliot Waugh** t-shirts in a dark sepia tone with white lettering, and each were also working their asses off for him. Marina was shouting at seamstresses, models, hair dressers and make-up people alike - as well as the NYC Fashion Show tech crew who weren’t even technically under her but they sure as hell listened when she demanded something. The last of the models finally showed up, 2 hours late, and Eliot was on the floor hemming a dark emerald green gown without destroying the embroidery and tripping every other person that tried to walk past. It was _insanely_ sad that his single moment of peace was when he was hurriedly stitching a garment with fingers already bruised and covered in bandaids from the abuse he’d put himself through the past week.

“Aaaand you're good, go, make-up. Now.” he told the model, able to somehow say so without any snark or malice. He was too overwhelmed to be mean to people today. “And don’t sit in that dress!” he shouted after her, turning around to the next model only to run straight into Marina.

“What the FUCK is wrong with this dress, for the love of - HELP ME,” she screeched at him, shoving the startled model towards him. He spun the poor girl in a circle, carefully, before setting a hand on Marina’s shoulder beside him. Eliot needed her centered today, not igniting like it was the 4th of July. She had been a model herself for years, she was his rock in the lunacy surrounding them. 

“One: breathe, freaking out is my job. Two: it’s on backwards. Three: light a fire, we are officially late and I will _literally_ pass out if I have to get down on my knees to hem one more dress. I’m too tall to deal with that kind of pressure change.”

“MOVE YOUR ASSES PEOPLE, T-MINUS 20 MINUTES!” Marina shouted, taking the model and dragging her out of the main thoroughfare to make her change her dress. And Eliot felt his throat close up at the timeframe. He tugged at his Windsor knot that was already loose, and he patted at his clothes in desperation to try and fix his outfit he’d spent over an hour picking out. He needed to look some kind of semblance of put together. But everything was wrinkled, he had pins in the cuff of his shirt, and a measuring tape draped around his neck, and he did _not_ have time for any of this. His head felt like it was spinning.

“Well hot damn, looks like someone robbed a trimmings store in here. Who decided _couture_ was the new black and didn’t tell me?” A familiar voice rang out loud and clear above the constant noise, and Eliot turned on his heel to the delightful smirk of Margo Hanson just past the ‘Model Entrance’ sign. The tension eased from his spine at just the sight of his mentor and best friend, and he swooped her into a tight embrace, spinning her out of the way of the sea of people and garments flying about. 

“Bambi, you are a sight for sore eyes,” he told her in a sing-song voice that earned him a kiss on the cheek. “What are you doing here? We’re competition this year.”

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart,” Margo said, smoothing down his vest for him and tugging at the silk shirt beneath to ease out the wrinkles there expertly. “We design for completely different clientele, and even if I had a show in the next tent over _nothing_ would stop me from being here. You are my protege, my shining star, so obviously the outcome of this whole thing is all about me.” She snarked, a near feral grin gracing her impeccable face, luminous eyes darting to each dress and outfit that passed them by like a cat admiring birds in an aviary. 

“Obviously,” Eliot agreed, smiling an airy, society-level smile as well and preening at her admiration. Not even blinking as she reached out and touched some of the precious creations as they glided past, he trusted Margo with the beadwork more than half his staff.

“Oh my _God_ , you embellished silk charmeuse, you absolute fucking monster,” Margo gasped, stopping a seamstress in her tracks to run the material through her hands. “I can’t believe you. I need this. Marina, put me down for the maroon charmeuse,” she said without changing her tone, giving Eliot vivid war-like flashbacks to working Margo’s own shows at fashion week years previous. He’d stolen Marina from her and was not sorry for it. “You’ve outdone yourself, El.”

Eliot sighed so loudly it hurt his lungs. He needed to quit chain smoking. “So why do I feel like I just walked into the Vogue offices naked with a sketchbook full of flannel?”

“El, honey, you need to chill because you are doing just fine. More than fine,” Margo told him seriously. “Seven years ago you _were_ waltzing in buck-naked with a sketchbook full of flannel, and look where you are now. Standing in Bryan Park with your own fashion show full of _haute couture_ gowns that Lagerfeld would adore.”

“It’s only _couture_ if they were made in France,” Eliot muttered petulantly, hoping to be quiet enough Margo wouldn’t hear him over her speech, but she shut him up with a look and a single finger held in front of his face.

“Shush, you diva. I plucked you from Parson’s with that god awful curly hair and matchy-matchy flannel and boots combo, and now you’re my polished society gentleman of _the most_ refined tastes this side of Lincoln Center, and I couldn’t be more proud.” She squeezed his hands and smiled all the more.

“God, go before you make me cry,” Eliot told her, practically bursting from the praise, accepting kisses on both cheeks enthusiastically before his menor whisked herself away on Prada heels in a pantsuit to kill. 

“ _Bonne chance!”_ she called, and Eliot huffed another breath dramatically. He needed all the good luck and well wishes he could get. 

They got all the models lined up, Eliot making a few last minute switches now that he had every single one of them in a row with full hair and make up and he had a couple seconds to overthink the ever loving shit out of his line. God, there was a lot of sparkles. Was the fur too much? Did the embroidery work come off as chic fabric manipulation, or like great grandma-ma’s couch cushions? 

“Fuck me,” he muttered under his breath, adjusting the fur shawl on the third girl (who was eyeing him like he was about to tell her when to take it off for the tenth time) and half tempted to just rip it off her shoulders and not show it at all.

“What now? Did you see your phone?” Marina griped beside him, also helping with last minute touches smoothing down creases and lint rolling everything within an inch of its life. 

“No. What’s wrong with my phone?”

“Nothing, it’s just blowing up. Don’t people know you’re showing at fashion week? It’s not like you have time to check facebook. _Don’t_ go get it.” She said sternly, glaring at him and then doing a double take. “And calm down, for fuck’s sake. Nothing is missing. It’s perfect.” Eliot swallowed hard, wanting to believe her - but the day was too big and something definitely felt like it was missing. Something had to be. He was sure he wouldn’t think about it until the first model turned out onto the runway. “McDreamy out there somewhere?”

“Front row,” Eliot mumbled, relaxing a bit at having his attention turned to his boyfriend. Seriously, those fucking roses that morning. Marina practically gagged.

“Tell me he has some fatal character defects under all that inheritance money. Kills puppies in his spare time, maybe?”

Eliot smirked at her grumbling. “Well, I spend more time with his family than I ever did with my own.” Which wasn’t saying much, really, and Eliot shoved all thoughts of the Midwestern farm far from his consciousness. He was at fucking New York Fashion Week. Get some perspective. He did turn a side eye Marina’s direction before he mentioned absently. “...he asked me to England for Christmas.”

Marina snorted. “He’s going to ask you a lot more than that.”

Eliot’s hands stilled where he had been trimming a stray thread. “What? You don’t think-” Marina gave him a _bitch, please_ look that shut him right up - and honestly, that banished any and all anxiety about the show from his mind. His wide eyes darted around at nothing, and he didn’t even have time to panic about _that_ before a tech was in his face telling him it was time.

“Okay, you all look stunning - strut like your life depends on it, because Marina might kill you if you don’t!” he called to his models, running his hands through his hair to smooth it down. His beautiful second-hand woman stopped him and yanked the measuring tape from around his neck before shoving him onto the runway to introduce himself - lights blinding and Marina’s voice behind him threatening his models that if she saw one smile on that runway she’d break their ankles. 

It brought a smile to his own face just in time for it to look like it was on purpose, and everything after that was a blur.

-

“EL! ELIOT!” 

He heard a familiar voice floating above the crowd of people at the after show, which had gotten _insane_ : the room was packed with models in their streetwear and all his crew, as well as the press and pretty much everyone he went to Parson’s with, and a _lot_ of famous clients that he’d worked with plus Margo’s usual suspects - and everyone was drinking way too much champagne. He kept posing for photos, talking into miniature recorders for press quotes, and networking his ass off while a little too tipsy to be doing so. Sebastian’s familiar British/New York lilt was the most welcome sound to his ears. He broke away from the millionth group photo he had agreed to pose for without so much as an apology, sweeping the slightly shorter man into his arms and melting like a puddle there. _Way_ too much champagne. 

“Congratulations, sweetheart,” Sebastian said into Eliot’s ear to be heard over the crowd, hugging him tight and he was so warm and solid Eliot grinned even wider. “It was amazing.”

“ _You’re_ amazing,” Eliot told Sebastian, leaning back to say so loudly and watch the way his eyes glinted in mirth. A million watt smile and impeccably groomed - seriously, he wasn’t real. “The roses alone, you’re insane. Amazingly insane.”

“I just wanted today to be perfect for you,” Sebastian said, all charm and earnest sentiment. Eliot could seriously just eat him up, he actually _meant_ what he said, and he kissed that small grin the man was trying to tamp down.

“It was, it really was. Now I just have to survive the gossip columns tomorrow,” Eliot assured him, glancing at the sea of faces around them with more than a dozen phones out typing away. “What if they hated it.”

“Don’t worry about that, they hate themselves,” Sebastian said, catching Eliot’s gaze again and holding it expertly. “It’ll be fine. Now, celebrate. Have another drink for me - I have a meeting across town-” 

“Nooo,” Eliot whined, locking his hands around the other man’s waist to hold him there. “You just got here. I don’t have that thick society skin yet, save me from the critics.” Sebastian just kissed him to quiet him but there was a smile there again when he did.

“I know you don’t, one of the things I love most about you. I’m sorry, dear, but I have to.” Eliot still pouted but he relented and let the other man go. “I’ll send a car for you at 8.”

“8… you mean tonight?”

“Yes, we have that thing. Gala, Lincoln Center,” Sebastian kept leaving hints while Eliot’s brain circled the drain. It was soaked in Moët & Chandon, he needed a moment.

“Right. The thing. Martin’s thing. Charity thing.” Damnit, he’d planned on passing out as soon as this was all over. He hadn’t slept much the past month. But he slipped on an easy smile Margo had taught him on day one of his internship with her. Fake it til you make it. “Okay, sounds lovely.”

One of Sebastian’s best qualities was he knew when Eliot was just putting up a front, even if he wasn’t quite the best at deciphering the true reason behind it. This time it was easy with the raccoon eyes Eliot was sporting, and he smiled sadly at his poor overworked partner. He squeezed Eliot’s hands, ceasing his exit to step back into the other’s space. “I am so proud of you. You should be proud, too.”

“Well,” Eliot shrugged, looking off as if it was the last thing on his mind and he hadn’t spent an entire year on the twenty looks that just walked the runway in front of God and everyone. Sebastian kissed him once more, like he couldn’t resist, and then left with promises to see him that night. Eliot waved him off through the crowd, then spun and with his hand still raised flagged down another glass of champagne. He needed to be much more drunk to deal with Martin Chatwin in 3 hours. 

Fuck, he also needed a tux. Or something better than a tux.

“MARGO! HELP!”

-

New York City at night was just as bright as it was during the day, especially down Broadway and through Times Square. Floating on a sea of taxi cab tail lights Eliot fiddled with his phone and watched the center of the world pass by outside the town car window, confused when the driver took them past the crowded turn off for Lincoln Center - and then also past the long way around when one wanted to avoid the tourist traffic. Were they actually going to pick Sebastian up? His penthouse uptown was the other direction.

“Where are we?” he finally asked, just as they turned down another street with some upscale cafes and back entrances to shops on 5th Avenue. 

“Mr. Chatwin is running late, he asked me to escort you inside so you don’t have to wait in the car.”

“I thought we were going to Lincoln Center?” Eliot elaborated. He’d been taking small hits off his flask, but not enough to be this confused. The driver just stepped out and opened the door for him, gesturing to a very shady cement door that honestly had no right being this close to 5th avenue. Eliot also had to weigh how much this reminded him of every episode of Law & Order, but he’d known Sebastian’s driver - Rafe - almost as long as they’d been dating. So he followed the other man inside and up the stairs, chatting away like they usually did when it was just the two of them. They came from the same economical background, and Eliot could chat up a fencepost if he thought it had a friendly disposition so it wasn’t really any hardship. “So tired,” he bemoaned once again.

“It’ll be a good night, don’t worry,” Rafe assured him, and opened one final door that led into a polished hallway with some OSHA forms behind glass and a closed breakroom door. Then there, at the end of the hallway, was Sebastian in his tuxedo for the gala and looking smug about something. Now Eliot was even _more_ suspicious. Rafe was no help when Eliot looked to him.

“Okay, what’s going on?” Eliot demanded, waltzing up to Sebastian like he wasn’t wearing a designer suit with more decorative satin-work than was probably deemed necessary for the event. Sebastian just took his hand and led him down another dark and creepy hallway. “This isn’t where you kill me, is it?”

“Not tonight, dear,” Sebastian answered cheekily, then tried to school his expression and failed. Eliot just narrowed his eyes at his boyfriend. “So, have you decided about England?”

“England? For Christmas?” Eliot blinked, a little taken aback at the subject change. “I mean, it’s not like I was planning on going home for the holidays. But that’s five months away, babe.”

“I know, but we need the time to plan,” Sebastian said absently, leading Eliot into a pitch dark room that wasn’t ominous whatsoever. “I was thinking… 200, maybe 300 guests. Tops.”

“For _Christmas_ ?” Eliot blanched, turning around in the dark so he could look at the man in the only light source beside them. “You know I love a good party as much as the next person, more so - probably, but even that’s a lot of people for a holiday shin-dig.” He couldn’t make out Sebastian’s face too well, and it was starting to make him nervous. “Sebastian, seriously. What’s going on? Why are we here?” Where even _was_ here? All he could vaguely make out was some very expensive looking marble elevators at Sebastian’s back.

Suddenly a series of clicking sounds reverberated through the room as lights were turned on inside over a dozen glass cases. Extending all the way back to the iconic spiral staircase, and inside the cases thousands of gleaming facets shined brightly until the overhead lights clicked on last. There was a person behind every display case, and what appeared to be the manager by the wall next to the elaborate light-switch board folding his hands behind his back. Gold, silver, and that white-crystal glow of diamonds next to the unmistakable shade of Tiffany blue surrounded them. His own antique rings that always adorned his fingers almost burned as he realized he’d never really set foot in a high-end custom jewelry store before. He’d never had a reason, most people back home only went to Jared’s or Kay Jewelers when they had just gotten engage-

“Oh my God.” 

No, no he couldn’t be. It was too soon. Almost a year, but wasn’t that too soon? 

Blue boxes with white satin ribbon were stacked in intricate displays with _Tiffany & Co _ embellished on the side. Rings and bracelets and _millions_ of dollars worth of diamonds glittered blindingly, and small face-sized mirrors were propped on silver stands atop each case. It was in the nearest one that Eliot saw his mouth was open in shock. Pure shock. He hadn’t been this shocked in - God, who knew how long. Ever, maybe? “Oh my _God_ .” Sebastian took his hand but Eliot couldn’t even look at him yet. He felt the nervous excitement radiating from the other man, but he also had to look smug as all get out because Eliot was _floored_.

Rupert Chatwin had done a lot of things to surprise Eliot in all the time he’d known him, but proposing inside a Tiffany’s? 

“El-”

“Just,” he interrupted quickly, “- just, give me a sec.” He wasn’t going to fucking cry, because there were a million other reasons why tears were filling his eyes, but mostly all he could think was _could he put someone else through this?_ But Sebastian touched his chin and turned his face to look at him. Eliot could barely find the words. “Are you sure? Because we can-” What, go back to the fucking car? He had the entire Tiffany’s staff here after hours for this. But Sebastian looked like he hadn’t been more sure of anything in his life, and Eliot swallowed hard because he _wanted_ Sebastian to be sure. He… he wanted this. He wanted to remember what this felt like. “It hasn’t even been a year, Sebastian.”

“Eliot, you know I always think things through every which way from Sunday before I take a step. I’ve been thinking about this a very long time,” Sebastian said, so even and quiet, voice low and kept just in the space between them. But it reverberated through Eliot’s very soul. His heart felt each syllable. “And I don’t usually ask questions I don’t already know the answer to. So before I risk you getting lost in your head and running away… will you let me ask?” Those words hit him square in the chest, knocked the breath right out of him, and Eliot _knew_ Sebastian didn’t know the impact they left. Couldn’t know. Eliot hadn’t let him, but _fuck_ he wanted to let Sebastian know. Everything there was to know. All of him.

Maybe this was his chance.

Taking his silence for his opportunity, Sebastian sunk down on one knee and still held Eliot’s hand, looking up with so much implorement El felt that too.

“Eliot Waugh, will you marry me?”

He wasn’t quite sure what expression his face was making, but it had to be some kind of tenderness in the form of a smirk - because he felt the side of his mouth turn up on it’s own, and Sebastian was _beaming_ at him now. Didn’t ask questions he didn’t already know the answers to, that sheer cheek. 

“Yes,” he said, the smirk melting into something broad and glowing and a laugh even bubbled up in his chest from the lightness of it all. “Yes! Yes, I will you _crazy_ -” Sebastian surged to his feet and kissed Eliot so deeply he saw stars, hands cradling his face the only thing keeping him on his feet. When they finally parted, Sebastian gestured to the whole room around them.

“Pick one.”

“Wait, what?” Eliot sputtered, and spun around as every sales person opened a case and produced a velvet mat of options - all for him. “Jesus _Christ_.” The whole store. Sebastian was basking in his shock and joy and grinning like a loon. They were going to be so dangerous together; had he _not_ _seen_ Eliot’s collection that afternoon? He had more expensive tastes than the damn royal family. Sebastian laced his fingers through Eliot’s own, bringing him back down from cloud nine or wherever he was spinning. 

“Anything for you,” he told him, and _again_ \- he meant every word. Eliot kissed him before his heart burst in his chest, an ache behind his ribs that he knew from experience was never going to go away. Not as long as the love was still there.

-

They hit traffic on the way to Lincoln Center, caught up in the long line of limos dropping off the city’s elite for the fundraiser - and neither Eliot nor Sebastian were complaining. Eliot couldn’t stop _kissing him_ or holding on to his face. Touching his clean shaven skin, cradling his neck, honestly anything that brought the ring on his finger front and center. He was a vain bitch, Eliot wasn’t afraid to admit it. He’d never owned something so nice; it was a thick band of separate gold and silver ivy leaves, each with a diamond inside it all the way around. It glittered and glimmered even in the dim light inside the limo they now resided in, and Eliot couldn’t look at it for 2 seconds without wanting to kiss Sebastian on the mouth again. Or the jaw. Or wherever.

“I thought you were exhausted,” Sebastian laughed under Eliot’s attention, hell he was practically sitting in his lap. “You haven’t slept in days, I’m sure.” True, but at the moment all fatigue was out the window. Eliot felt like his skin was buzzing, electric currents in his veins, he even felt _sober_ \- God forbid - but a good kind. Who knew? 

“Excuse us, Rafe,” Eliot said to their driver, hitting the button above their heads to close the window to their cabin and attaching himself to Sebastian’s neck. 

“Calm down, dear. We have all the time in the world now,” Sebastian said, trying to sound reasonable while his breath hitched. “I’ve been planning this for weeks, you can settle for a few hours,” he laughed, catching Eliot’s fervent lips and holding him there until he sighed at being stalled. “We have so much to look forward to. First and foremost, the look on Martin’s face when I tell him.” He meant it as a joke, but it cooled Eliot’s jets pretty quickly. Martin Chatwin was not Eliot’s biggest fan. At best, he tolerated him for Sebastian’s sake alone.

Then Sebastian said the one phrase Eliot did not need to hear that day.

“Let’s call your parents and tell them.” He was excited, like a kid on Christmas, and already pulling his phone from his pocket - but El’s blood had run ice cold. 

“NO!” He snatched the iPhone from his fiancè’s hand and froze beneath his confused stare, holding the device out of reach with wide eyes. “I mean, not right now. We can’t right now. I-” There really wasn’t a good way to explain this without it sounding way worse than it was. Eliot composed himself and managed to look away from Sebastian’s face to do so. “I just haven’t been home in a long time, my family and I aren’t close.”

“When was the last time you were home?” Sebastian asked, concern furrowing his brows and - honestly, that was kind of worse. Sebastian and his siblings didn’t have the best relationship with each other, but they were also orphans now and went out of their way to make sure they were in each other’s lives. Eliot did the polar opposite with his family.

“Since I left for New York,” he admitted. Seven years was a long time to be gone without a trace, he was well aware. He didn’t even go home for his father’s funeral two years ago, and he knew no one blamed him for that. Surprised, probably, that he didn’t come back just to dance on that bastard’s grave - or to visit his mom who was now a widow. Fuck, he was a terrible person. He just… _couldn’t_ go back to Indiana. But now he was going to have to. “I need to head home and see them in person, before they find out about all this on Good Morning America.” It wasn’t until Sebastian nodded in understanding that Eliot realized he thought he was still just talking about his family.

He was in way over his head here. 

“So… could we wait a couple days? Just until I talk to them.”

“Of course, we can get a flight next week,” Sebastian said more gently and supportive than anyone had any right to be. Eliot outright winced and could not hold it back. “What?”

“I - uh, I should probably go alone.” 

“Eliot,” Sebastian said in exasperation. “I have to meet them at some point. Unless, you don’t want them at the wedding at all?” Fuck, now he thought it was a homophobic thing. Which - half truths were usually his thing, but not this time it seemed.

“Oh no, my mother would literally never forgive me if she’s not there,” Eliot said too fast, steam-rolling over the _most perfect out ever_ . Damnit. He had to keep from smacking himself in the head for that. The lack of sleep and over abundance of drinking was really getting to him. He took another hit off his flask just to take the edge off, and offered it to Sebastian as well. The other man in the car who was in way over his head and didn’t even know it. “And I know you have to meet my family. They’re going to love you more than me, want to adopt you probably-” and didn’t _that_ sound familiar. He had a type, apparently. “I still need to go and lay the groundwork, first.”

Sebastian nodded, sucking his teeth at the straight hit of brandy he had not been expecting from the silver flask. Eliot needed to hit the liquor store sometime soon, his bar was low after all the stress drinking pre-fashion week. He paused, then cast a squinted look Eliot’s direction. “It’s because I’m a democrat, isn’t it?”

Eliot smirked, not denying the statement. “That, and you’re gay.” 

They crumbled into laughter a beat later, Sebastian reaching over to tuck Eliot’s flask back inside his inner jacket pocket, and also taking Eliot’s hand with the ring and squeezing it tight. He hadn’t said much about it, yet, but he couldn’t take his eyes off it either every time it caught the light. 

“Okay, not a word,” he promised, and Eliot kissed that soft smile as they finally pulled up in front of Lincoln Center. “We don’t want Martin making a scene, anyway.”

“We don’t?” Eliot asked, mock confusion and way too much snark to not earn him one of those unpracticed grins he loved so much. Sebastian had grown up in the limelight, every inch of him was primed and ready to be photographed or documented - cataloged like the sections of a newspaper. He had these precise smiles and expressions meant for certain reactions and appropriate situations. But sometimes Eliot said or did something that made him slip, revealing he was a real person underneath the glamour. “I thought we liked making him all flustered and red under his Victorian high collars.”

“Not when we’re keeping secrets, love,” Sebastian said with his teeth together in a photograph ready smile, Eliot’s only warning as about 200 flash bulbs went off and he was led blind through the red carpet crowd. Eliot did _not_ have a practiced smile ready, and he was already dreading page six the following morning. Before he knew it he was ushered down a red carpet that had paparazzi and news reporters hanging over it like the receiving line at a Beatles concert. Shouting a deluge of things, trying to get their attention so they captured more than a profile on their way toward the Performing Arts Center. 

“SECRETARY CHATWIN!” was screamed over and over again, along with his own name, but Sebastian just kept his hand tight within Eliot’s own and led him towards the fountain at the center of the entrance square, where everything had been partitioned off by security - and no doubt where Martin Chatwin was chatting up every known public official he possibly could. That man could talk anyone’s ear off.

“SECRETARY CHATWIN HAVE YOU TOLD YOUR BROTHER YOU’RE ENGAGED?” Was the last scream Eliot heard, and his heart jumped to his throat. Someone at Tiffany’s must have snitched, but maybe Martin and Sebastian hadn’t heard them yet. He could feel the time he had to keep his life from falling apart slipping through his hands like sand. 

“Rupert!” Martin boomed, louder than the reporters could ever hope to be. “Finally! What kept you?” They embraced, picture-perfect for the hundreds of cameras and cell phones. But Eliot was close enough to see the younger Chatwin tug at Sebastian’s collar to hide a blooming bruise on his neck. “I see we’re getting in touch with our primary school roots.”

“Sorry _we’re_ late,” Sebastian said pointedly, folding his arm within Eliot’s and reminding his brother that he was there. As if it was needed. Eliot did indeed love nothing more than pissing off Martin Chatwin; it was a past time of his and Sebastian’s. How he slipped into their old money lifestyle like he was made for it, they had actually fooled him for the first four months of their relationship. Martin 100% thought Eliot had spent his days summering with the Kennedy’s. They also very prominently never called Sebastian by his first name, Rupert, which made Martin _so angry_. But Sebastian so happy. 

“ _Eliot!_ How lovely to see you,” Martin said in that same booming voice. “Don’t you look extravagant. You always manage to arrive looking so fashionable, and _expensive_ . What is that, satin?” The barb did not go unnoticed, and Eliot’s eyes sparkled at the unashamed cattiness of the other Chatwin sibling. Deep down, he kind of like Martin Chatwin - he was unapologetic in all the best and worst ways, and _so_ entertaining. 

“Yes, a gift from my former mentor. Margo Hanson?” The household name was his own cards being thrown on the pile, and Martin chuckled a little darkly. 

“You two, behave,” Sebastian said, turning as he was called on by the Police Commissioner, and Martin embraced Eliot just like he had his brother before. For the cameras, of course. 

“Now, you know I hate surprises. What’s going on, Rupert is never late,” he said quietly, leveling with Eliot while also kind of threatening him? Seriously, Eliot felt like he should be taking notes, and was also a little honored Martin was asking _him_ for the truth instead of his brother. The walking model of integrity.

“Trust me, I was actually on time. It was all your brother’s fault,” Eliot insisted, biting his tongue before he threw his _fiancè_ too far under the bus. “He’ll tell you later, I’m sure.” What he wouldn’t give to be there and see Martin Chatwin’s face when he found out Eliot was going to be his brother-in-law, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t even be in New York City when it happened. Small sacrifices for a lifetime of pure joy, on all fronts. He grinned, half feral, showing too much teeth he was sure but Martin just matched him inch for inch.

And then he froze. 

His teeth were still gritted, but his eyes were wide, and he was holding on to Eliot’s hands like he always did - shaking them before letting go and moving on to the next person. The signature Mayor Chatwin shake and pivot, as the NY Times had called it, but this time he’d been stopped in his tracks. The grip on Eliot’s left hand was so tight it was cutting off circulation, and combined panic raced through his heart when he realized _why_ Martin had frozen.

“ _Rupert!_ ” Martin called, a shrill tone in his voice that summoned Sebastian in an instant. It took him a moment to understand why he was holding on to Eliot’s hands like he’d been electrocuted. “Why is there a fucking disco ball wrapped around a _very important_ finger on Eliot’s hand?” His head twitched in a very horror-movie-esque move to stare at Sebastian’s startled face. “Or am I having a stroke?” 

“Marty-” Sebastian started, but his brother had looked down at the gleaming ring and how it was so very obviously brand new. Martin Chatwin didn’t get to where he was for being _stupid_ , he quickly connected the dots between them being late and Eliot’s words a few seconds previous about it being Sebastian’s fault. “You _didn’t_ , _Rupert_ ,” Martin practically moaned, and Eliot was trying to pry his hands from Martin’s grasp to avoid the look on the man’s face like he had betrayed him by saying yes. Eliot did not need to hear that he wasn’t good enough for Sebastian, least of all from Martin to shout it for every tabloid headline in New York. “God, YOU’RE ENGAGED!?” Sebastian’s practiced smile cracked like porcelain, and the world seemed to explode around them in a flash of camera lights and uproar for confirmation. As if they hadn’t heard the mayor shout at the top of his lungs. 

Talk about a fucking headline. 

-

“I hate you so much, after everything I’ve done for you this is the thanks I get?” Margo’s voice echoed through the car speakers as Eliot drove with the windows down. “I had to find out you’re engaged to Prince Charming like the rest of the peasants, through Twitter.” She spat the last word in disgust, but Eliot knew it was a lie. Half her life was spent on social media, she had a very dedicated love/hate relationship with it. 

“I’m sorry, Bambi, he just grabbed my hand and shouted it from the rooftops. I couldn’t exactly stop it from happening,” Eliot said, apologizing for the hundredth time - but it fell on deaf ears.

“You haven’t even sent me a picture of it yet!” Margo accused, the sound of a bell chiming as she entered what could only be their usual brunch spot for Sundays. Eliot could practically see her flagging down their waiter for a whole pitcher of mimosas for their table. Marina and a few others were meeting there as well, since it was technically the day after Eliot’s premier solo fashion show. Jesus, that was _yesterday_. “Stop whatever you’re doing and take a picture right now. I need to see whatever extravagant monstrosity I know you chose.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“ _Please_. Even the porn-cam quality photos at the tabloid stands show it’s huge, you extra bitch. I’m sure it’s made of diamonds imported directly from the Queen’s asshole.” Eliot almost crashed the car he laughed so hard, and there was nothing around him. “Or just get your ass down here and show me it. I already can’t see for shit out of my right eye, might as well go full-tilt blind and get disability.” Eliot swallowed hard, this had been the whole reason he’d called Margo in the first place. “You want your usual, or are we getting sloshed this morning? You have reason enough to celebrate yourself into a coma.”

With a heavy sigh, Eliot said “I wish I could. But I’m not coming.”

“What? Why the fuck not?” Margo snapped, shocked more than angry. Sunday brunch had been their tradition for the past four years. Eliot could barely form the words, they were so heavy on his tongue, but he forced them out as if spitting out clumps of mud.

“I’m in Indiana.”

Margo’s mouth dropped open audibly, and Eliot rested his head in his hand where he leaned against the rental car door. There was no one else on the road; the Twilight Zone in comparison to New York. He could feel every single mile between himself and his best friend in painful succession.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Margo rasped out, draining her glass in one giant gulp - for once at a loss for words. She didn’t know the specifics, but she knew more than anyone else what that meant for him.

“Yep,” Eliot agreed, not even bothering to hide the dread lacing each syllable. 

Abandon all ye hope, motherfucker. 

Hell is real - and it lives in Carthage, Indiana. 

\--


	3. ii. Indiana

-

Nestled deep in the midwestern countryside of central Indiana was a small cluster of towns - barely big enough to be called so - surrounding a small winding stretch of river. Sounds charming, right? Those three towns were named Carthage, Knightstown, and Charlottesville: farming communities composing three very different stereotypes. Knightstown was the largest, closest to a suburb, with the made-for-tv movie set style downtown. Cute, antique stores, had an actual tourist season. Carthage was literally six blocks long with no real downtown to speak of, mostly just farmland and farm-related businesses all gathered together like chickens around feed on the ground. And Charlottesville was the red-headed step-cousin that liked to shoot cats with a BB gun. They didn’t talk much about Charlottesville, and you’d be fucked trying to find a population count. They drove the 2010 census taker out of town fearing for his life. 

They were two hours from the nearest metropolitan city, one with skyscrapers and more than one Starbucks, and the 30 square miles that made their weird little trifecta of a community held  _ maybe _ 4000 people. There are more people enrolled in Parson’s School of Design in a single year. How depressing was that. Don’t even ask how large the high school graduating class was. It gets worse.

Eliot had passed less than a dozen cars since he’d left the main highway, halfway through his drive from Indianapolis. The rest of the trip was spent on a dusty two lane road that wove and wound through acre after fucking acre of corn and wheat and  _ cows _ as far as the eye could see. The monotony of dry grey highways and a million gas station/fast food traps off each exit ramp was replaced with farmhouse after farmhouse. A never ending line of fence posts and grain silos popping up out of the landscape like mushrooms.

It was early July and everything was bathed in green and gold, flourishing and alive and so far apart from how the streets of New York City were alive. Eliot had become accustomed to the bustling condensed form of life in a big city, of the lives of  _ people _ stumbling around one on top of the other, that he had forgotten what it felt like to be surrounded by a different kind of life. Not necessarily nature, like one would find in a National Park, but the messy organized world of living on a farm. Dirt and seeds and animals and a million plants growing in neat rows and being nurtured every day of the year. To the untrained eye it would look like he was driving by nothing at all, but Eliot had grown up in those fields. Remembered how sometimes lying on the ground in the middle of a corn field was the only way to connect to something else that existed outside of himself and his family. To the Earth and the way the people worked with it and didn’t give two shits what was happening hundreds of miles away. 

God, he hoped that was still the case. Maybe no one had been online yet to read about what happened the night before. Or maybe people checked their Facebook feeds as they ran the tractors and irrigation systems at 4am like he used to back in High School. Save him if rural Indiana had  _ advanced _ since he’d left.

The closer he got to Carthage, the more bits and pieces of the life he left behind came back to him. Memories crashing in unrelenting waves on his bored mind as he drove, and not even waves of water like the ones that cut across the surface of the Hudson. They had been replaced by the waves of wind against the silk tops of the corn stalks, fluttering like the sea surrounding a ship - but in this metaphor the ship is a tractor that Eliot swore he’d never touch again. Bit by bit, New York was being replaced by the rural landscape around him.

He couldn’t escape it. Every turn of the road revealed another spot from his childhood: a tree he’d climbed a million times during the hot summers, a corner he’d crashed the family car on and faced the consequences there in the headlights, a fenced off entrance that belonged to an old friend and led to unforgettable nights where he drank too much and did crazy shit. Sensations and flickers of feelings he’d thought he had buried so far under the floorboards they’d never see the light of day again. Ones he wanted to keep that way, especially when his new life was just beginning to really flourish back home in New York. But the Indiana sunshine was as penetrating as it had always been. Shedding light on everything it fucking could, no matter the consequences. The heartless bitch.

With his set jaw tightly, and his Ray Bands shielding him from what flew past his open windows, Eliot pressed the gas near to the floor and refused to look at anything but street signs and the faded yellow lines in the middle of the road. Memory Lane was fucking closed. He had to recenter himself and not lose who he had become before he finished his business there. Despite everything he had said to Sebastian the night before, he actually wasn’t here for his family, and he drove so fast past the turn off to his family’s farm and fields that it was gone before he bothered to blink and check his rearview mirror. Everything that needed to be said between Eliot and his family could easily be settled with a phone call. 

He was here for someone else. Someone who, apparently, needed a more physical confrontation. 

Fuck, this was the  _ last _ thing he wanted to do. But it had to be done. For him, and Sebastian, and their future. The bright sunshine glinted off his ring obscenely, and he quickly ripped it off his finger and shoved it into his vest pocket. No need to complicate things further than they were about to be.

After crossing the river, he neared Knightstown and at the last minute cut through the suburbs instead of the main thoroughfare. It was a Saturday and it would be filled to the brim with farmers and tourists alike. It had been so long since he’d been there, Eliot doubted he would be recognized - especially in a rental car - but he didn’t want to risk it. The town was full of nosy, gossipy bitches, and if even  _ one _ thought it might be Eliot Waugh returned from beyond the fields, it would be the main topic of discussion at every dinner table that evening.  _ Before _ dinner, even. He smirked, knowing that he used to be one of the main tendrils of the grapevine that helped spread such news, and for a moment longed for those days being the top of the food chain. But he beat that down into submission and pulled off the most modernly paved roads towards the dirt and gravel and beaten cement of the rural communities once more.

He followed the Carthage pike road along the river, out past the only local High School, and over the rolling emerald green hills and straight towards the towering White Oak forest. It was enormous, sprawled all the way into the next county, and the road skirted the edge of the treeline dotted here and there with stumps - courtesy of the land owners. The Coldwater family had gotten real serious with their ‘responsible and sustainable forestry’ that they plastered on every billboard and poster they could. They supplied a  _ lot _ of hardwood to neighboring sawmills and it had been a good staple to their meager family fortune for going on a century. Enough to live on and pursue other interests as well. The most infamous being Ted Coldwater who owned and operated a popular dive bar out near Raysville, on the other side of Knightstown by the rock quarries, just for shits and giggles. 

But Eliot wasn’t thinking about that, or the endless nights and bottomless drinks he’d fallen into there. Another place that had been a second home, and he shook it off just in time to round another corner and be smacked in the face with a sight he could never forget no matter how hard he tried. 

Now he was in full blown denial. Eliot flat out refused to admit that his breath hitched at the sight of the Brakebills Estate across the open expanse out across the hills. The castle-like structure that they had called Whitespire all their childhood. Sitting uptop the tallest one like something you’d find in the English countryside. Only in the MidWest would you find a damn castle because someone was rich enough and weird enough to want to build one. It was just as picture-perfect in the distance as it had always been, and Eliot managed to rip his eyes away before it disappeared behind the stretches of greenery and cornfields. He was close now. 

He began to search the road for an obscure turn off hidden among the trees. It was near impossible to find, one of it’s main selling points nearly a decade ago, and he half expected to miss it entirely - but he caught sight of it at the last second and slammed on the brakes. For just a moment he idled there, and to be fair he almost kept driving. His gut screaming at him how easy it would be to just  _ keep going _ along the county road, until he made it all the way back to the highway and could just speed straight back to the airport. He had a return flight that day, probably wishful thinking on his part. But every inch of his self-preservation instinct was telling him that if he wasn’t on that plane that evening then he was never going to leave again. 

He would not let his hometown trap him, again. Over his dead body. He felt a sense of dread at even the thought of stepping out of the car, and it was quickly replaced with disdain for the person that was forcing him to be there. Nothing could ever be easy, could it? He finally turned onto their road, and ducked his head as if the canopy of trees would brush against his car if he wasn’t careful. The trees hadn’t been trimmed in what looked like years.

The road still wasn’t paved either, Eliot noted in annoyance. A thick layer of dirt and leaf debris coated what was supposed to be gravel or asphalt,  _ like they had talked about _ , and since it was fucking summer that spoke volumes of how long those leaves had been there. He schooled the scowl on his lips, pulling the car through the covered bridge and then up to the house sitting there next to a turn in the river. It was a battered one story that had also not seen any love or attention in a long time, it appeared. What the hell had he been  _ doing _ all these years? Eliot unfolded himself from the compact car and looked around, covering his eyes from the blaring sun despite his sunglasses. There was no one around, and no sign of anyone save for the beaten pick-up that may or may not actually be working still. Then a screeching of a saw echoed from the barn up the slight incline around the house, and Eliot huffed a breath in preparation for what he was about to do.

The barn was in worse shape than the house, but it looked more lived in. Tools everywhere, a newer looking four-wheeler and trailer hitched to the back with fresh cut stumps and limbs. There were stacks on stacks of cut wood everywhere, the warm summer air filled with the distinct smell of charred oak wafting from an unknown source, and there sitting next to the electric saw was the man Eliot had come all this way for. Covered in woodshavings, wearing a welding mask and thick carpenter’s apron, with his dark hair so long it was drawn back in a small bun at the base of his neck - and a little broader in the shoulders than Eliot remembered. He really couldn’t believe the other man was doing  _ any _ kind of craftsmanship around a buzzsaw without slicing off his fingers in the process. He had always despised working in the lumber yards and sawmill with his family. Something they had bonded over in school, since the last thing Eliot ever wanted to do was tend fields of corn. They’d always talked about getting out...

“BE WITH YOU IN A SEC!” the man shouted over the saw, finishing up with the board between his thickly gloved hands, cutting a precise line expertly, only to let the boards clatter to the ground carelessly after. One side of the board was burnt to a crisp, black and flaking, and Eliot raised his eyebrow at the sight. What was even the point of cutting up burnt boards? But then the man took off his face mask and pushed his sweat-curled bangs back up out of his face in an achingly familiar gesture, an awkward but slightly more confident smile than Eliot had expected gracing his face. He was clean shaven, eyes bright from the exertion of his work, and he quickly stood up and began pulling off his gloves like he was about to come up and shake Eliot’s hand. Fuck. He looked so  _ good _ it stole any breath from Eliot’s lungs. 

Quentin Coldwater had grown up a lot in seven years.

“Sorry about that, thanks for waiting,” Quentin said, rounding his work bench and brushing off the mess of wood shaving clinging to his apron and clothes. He had a tone that sounded very customer service, prepared for an amicable business transaction. Very common around these parts. But Eliot didn’t approach any further, keeping a good 15 feet between them and grasping the strap of his work satchel so tight it was leaving indents in his palms. It was  _ painfully _ obvious that Quentin didn’t recognize him, and Eliot really didn’t know what to do with that. He was actually a little hurt by it. Had he changed that much? “What can I do for you?”

Eliot’s seized up throat hurt as he swallowed, but he didn’t let an inch of the discomfort show on his face. Instead, he let what could only be the small kindlings of anger fan at his disposition - and used it to fuel his careful calmness he took so much pride in. The one that was quietly rage-filled, driven by ambition and street smarts, and held a barely contained bite of snark. The one that would be unmistakable. That would explain how he felt having to fly 700 miles to deal with this. He quirked his mouth in a prim, mocking half-smile and took off his sunglasses to look right into Quentin Coldwater’s dark eyes.

“Well, since we’re asking so nicely, you can get over here and sign these fucking divorce papers.”

Quentin’s smile dropped like a cinder block, absolute horror and shock taking over every inch of his face. He even dropped his work gloves in the process.

“... _ Eliot _ ?” 

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed in affirmation, head ticked to the side and accusing Quentin with a glare of way too many things to name. There would be no question as to how Eliot felt about being put in this situation, and he no longer felt bad about letting Quentin know as much. He had the bill of divorcement fisted in one hand, and he held it up by his face since Q hadn’t looked away from it - overwhelmed in his own complete surprise. “Recognize these?” the other man’s expression cracked and he tried to look away as if embarrassed.

“El-”

“ _Don’t -_ ‘El’ me. I sent them five times, Quentin!” And it literally tore a little piece out of his cold, dead heart every time he had to do it. He wanted to resent the other man so much in that moment, but he was standing there somehow looking ashamed and also so _not sorry_ that Eliot had to scoff. But he also couldn’t seem to look away from Eliot, no matter how much he was visibly scrambling and fumbling for an excuse. His wide, dark eyes were catching and snagging on every detail - head to toe - and Eliot had to pause in his tirade because, was Q really checking him out right now? 

Okay, he’d done the same thing a moment before, but he’d had his sunglasses on and hadn’t been so obvious about it. Eliot knew he looked good, he always did. He also was dressed  _ very differently _ than the 20-year-old country kid who left town with one suitcase and every bridge he’d ever built burning behind him. But he shook that off, shifting his weight to one hip and still holding up the papers so Quentin wouldn’t be able to forget them. 

Q managed to regroup, blink and finally tear his attention away from Eliot’s  _ everything _ to hunch his shoulders and squeeze his eyes shut - finding his words after being derailed so destructively. “You don’t show up here, for  _ seven years _ -”

“Yes, I know,” Eliot drawled, not caring that he was interrupting. He didn’t want to argue with Q, or give him the chance to try and spin this in any other direction than the one that had him on a plane back to New York in four hours. “I could have probably made it a whole decade if not for you.” Quentin looked like he’d just slapped him in the face, and Eliot steeled himself against that, too. 

“Not a text, or a call, I left a million voice mails, can - can we just  _ talk  _ for a minute? Please?” Quentin fumbled, managing to step closer and Eliot veered out of his path over to the work bench. 

“You want to talk? Sure, of course we can talk,” Eliot said, flippant and entirely too cheerful to be sincere. “We can talk all you want while you sign next to all these pretty blue tabs. See?” he held up the documentation one more time then spread them out over the waist high work space, brushing away tools and wood shavings as he did without breaking stride. He could recenter himself and be elegant and poised in front of his future ex-husband, he fucking  _ could _ . Margo’s voice in his head was berating him into standing up straight, shoulders back, giving his movement and ministrations a showmanship quality - and Quentin was looking at him like he didn’t even know him. “Blue for you, red for me, and yellow for the blood-sucking lawyers up in New York.” He handed Quentin a pen with barely a sideways glance, not even surprised when the man didn’t take it from him. 

The reason he wouldn’t look directly into Quentin’s eyes in that moment was because he knew the storm that laid within them; all the emotions and questions that were brewing like thunderhead clouds, and Eliot refused to get lost in them. Refused to give in and let his oldest childhood friend bury himself right back under his skin like he’d always done. This had to be quick. It certainly wouldn’t be painless, for either of them - but he could at least try to be in and out and never had to darken Quentin’s doorway again. At the deafening silence beside him, he was forced to finally look over and see the destruction that he’d already done. Eliot sighed, feeling the breath drag through his lungs painfully, and did give in - just the tiniest bit. 

“C’mon, joke’s over, Q,” he told him, using his nickname for the first time out loud. Spoken more quiet and less forcefully fronted. Leveling with him as best as Eliot could allow himself, given the situation. “We need to stop being children about this.”

“ _ I’m _ being a child?” Quentin exclaimed. 

“I said ‘we’,” Eliot snapped, reiterating, and now fully looking at Quentin in bewilderment. “I know I started all this, but seriously Quentin! My lawyer charges me $450 an hour, and he billed me every time you sent these damn papers back!” Now he was yelling. He roughly tapped the papers in emphasis, close to smacking the table to get his point across. He hated these fucking papers, and he hated looking at them even more. 

“Good! I’m glad to see you finally got the message,” Quentin snapped back, arms crossed and full on glaring at Eliot. Now it was his turn to look like Q had slapped him across the face, but he felt more impressed than hurt.

“Well, someone grew a spine,” he said airily, pushing off the table and also crossing his arms defensively. “When did that happen?”

“Did you really think you’d come back and just - find me hiding under our checkered quilt? Seven years later?” he sure did love pointing out how long it’d been. He also was not done glaring at Eliot, all astoundment gone that he was even there at all. “That I wouldn’t have a life? Without you in it.” 

Eliot huffed a sigh, a frown pulling at his lips because - he honestly hadn’t thought too much about it. He hadn’t let himself. But yes, deep down he guessed that’s kind of what he’d expected. “Thought you would at least get fat,” he muttered, eyes roaming Quentin’s broader physique once more. But he was better about hiding what it did to him than Q had been. 

Quentin choked on a laugh, pushing stray strands of hair back up out of his face again and swaying back a few steps. Not wanting to give in just as much as Eliot. “Disappointed?”

Eliot’s eyes lit up, a smirk smeared where the frown had been, not even able to lie in that moment. Or hide the appreciation from his voice. “No.”

The questioning - hopeful - glance sent his way was like a fucking knife to the gut, and Eliot felt it rip through him just as painfully. So he schooled his damn hormones and turned back to the work bench. “Let’s just do this, I have a plane to catch.”

“Wh- you’re leaving?” Quentin sounded genuinely dismayed, and Eliot was not proud of the look he sent the other man’s direction. Did he expect him to stay and visit? Eliot felt like he was holding in his breath and wouldn’t be able to let it out until his feet touched New York concrete once more. “You really came back for 10 minutes to get me to sign your stupid papers?”

“Apparently, I had to,” Eliot ground out, irked and sliding fast into annoyance. He was quickly being reminded how much Quentin had to inspect every fucking angle of a situation before he could make sense of it. “ _ Someone _ wouldn’t let me do this through the mail.” Quentin very pointedly looked away, looking back to Eliot’s rental car by the house then to his work satchel with the carry-on tag on it.

“Did you just get here this morning?” he asked, eyebrows furrowed as he pieced things together and Eliot sighed so loudly he lulled his head back just to be dramatic. 

“ _ Yes _ ,” he groaned. “And I’m already dying to get home. So if you don’t mind?” he extended his pen back out to Q, but one glance told him he’d already lost the man. He had caught on the word ‘home’, mouthed it, then his whole expression darkened. 

“Your mom doesn’t even know you’re here, does she?” he asked. Eliot bit his tongue, didn’t so much as twitch his face, but really that was all Quentin needed. “ _ Eliot.” _

“Can you blame me?” Eliot said, deadpan.

“YES!” Q near shouted, reverting back to looking at Eliot like he’d grown an extra head. “Jesus Christ, El! You haven’t seen her in-”

“SEVEN YEARS, I’m fucking aware, Q!” Eliot hollered, leaning both hands on the bench and keeping his head down so he wouldn’t have to give in to the impulse to just scream at the sky. “Now will you PLEASE sign these fucking papers so I can go home!” he knew he was near whining, and without even looking at Q he could tell the man had made a decision. “Wait-”

“You know what,” Quentin started, ripping the top of the apron over his head and throwing the whole thing to the ground by the work bench. Calm and cool and not reacting to Eliot in the slightest. “I’m not signing these.”

“ _ What _ ,” Eliot blanched. “Q-”

“UNTIL you go talk to your mom,” Quentin elaborated, pointing at him as he said it - dead serious. No longer mad or emotional, and Eliot felt all of 10 years old being reprimanded for acting out when he knew he had to be responsible. “I’m not the only one you left behind here.”

“Q, I promise I will go over there if you just sign these damn papers!” desperation bled into his plea and Eliot cursed his slipped composure. Quentin took the opening and didn’t hold back. 

“No. Don’t think for a  _ second _ that I’m not petty enough to use leverage when I see it,” Quentin said, having the decency to not outright laugh in Eliot’s face, but that little smirk was kind of attractive in a super aggravating way. “So get back in your car and drive to your mom’s - then  _ maybe _ I’ll  _ think _ about signing them.” Oh  _ ho _ , Eliot saw what he did there and his laugh turned bitter so fast it could give whiplash. 

“Fuck, you drive me crazy!” he growled out, standing up his full height and squaring up with Quentin Coldwater. He was ready to dance if he had to, Q had no idea what kind of sting his words could leave if he really let them. “Why are you doing this?!”

Not rising to the bait, Q looked up into his eyes and didn’t even blink as he answered. “Because you’ve gotten away with too much for  _ way  _ too long, and right now I’d like nothing better than to piss you off.” Then with a quick side-step he was out of Eliot’s space and making his way across the yards towards the house, and this time Eliot was left behind in the dust.

“Wh- Q! What are you doing?” he shouted after him.

“Leaving! Thought you’d recognize it when you saw it!” He was at the house before Eliot could start chasing after him, up the steps and locking the door behind him - and that was  _ not _ going to fly. Not today. Eliot had come too far and waited too long for this, he wasn’t leaving without Quentin Coldwater’s signature on the divorcement papers. He didn’t care what he’d have to do to get them. 

-

Banging on the door was useless, yelling Quentin’s name didn’t do much either. He no longer had the man’s number in his phone, so that was a dead end as well. The backdoor was probably locked, and the outdoor root cellar was always padlocked, so Eliot paced the porch trying to think of a way inside. Quentin was outright ducking the windows, thinking of all the entrances about the same time as Eliot did. Kitchen side door, windows, garage doors, they were doing this ridiculously elaborate dance and Eliot felt like he was in a sitcom the longer it went on. Then finally, he remembered the one stupid MidWestern tradition all new homeowners always give into - including himself and Quentin nearly 10 years ago when they first bought the place. 

Quentin emerged from their back bedroom about 15 minutes after he’d stopped shouting for him to open the door and talk to him - probably coming out to see if he’d actually gotten in his car and left - and the look on his face when he saw Eliot sitting on a barstool by the kitchen was worth the whole ordeal. 

“When you lock someone out, next time make sure they don’t know where your hide-a-key is,” Eliot smirked, twirling the rusted key between his fingers idly and relishing in Q’s dismayed expression.

“That would be a lot easier if I’d known  _ where you hid it _ ,” Quentin grumbled, skirting the living room so he wouldn’t have to walk past Eliot and ducking into the kitchen to grab a beer from the fridge. He didn’t offer Eliot one, and Eliot didn’t ask - but he eyed it like a man dying of thirst. “I’ve been looking for it for ages. Where was it?”

“Lip of the drain pipes on the North end, high above your pretty head. You’d never be able to reach it,” Eliot said haughtily, pulling his flask from his inside vest pocket and taking a sip the same time Quentin pulled from his beer. 

“You’re an asshole. Knew I should have checked the roof.”

“That does sound like me,” Eliot lamented, smiling a real smile and barely aware he let it slip until he caught Quentin staring softly. He hadn’t even known he’d leaned back in his seat, leg crossed over his knee and sliding back into a position that was so familiar the muscle memory alone gave away how little Quentin had changed the interior of the house. How he’d left it just the same as the day Eliot left, so he’d still fit into the spaces he’d left behind when he walked back through that door. With a jerking start, Eliot sat up straight and felt the ease slip from his expression to something far more troubled. For all his talk about moving on with his life, Quentin was still holding on to a past that Eliot had trampled all over years and years ago.

He didn’t know if it was stubbornness, or the clinical depression, or a reverse-psychology trap laid out so far in advance Q never even knew if it would spring - but whatever it was, it was working. Eliot felt himself softening around the edges at the bits and pieces of their life Quentin had held on to all these years just within sight of where he sat. The Fillory and Further books they used to read in the grassy hills by Whitespire, the quilt he’d slaved over in 8th grade Home Ec where he’d first learned to sew, their combined Elton John vinyl collection and that beaten up record player Quentin had put back together purely through youtube videos, paper clips, and a handful of good intentions. Because Q was a fucking genius and didn’t deserve to still be tied down to this stupid backwater town. He even caught sight of a big ass mason jar coated in grime and dust, with a couple hundred dollars in ones and fives crammed inside and GTFO written in sharpie on the side. 

They had always talked about getting out of there, together. Eliot was never supposed to go to New York alone. 

But here they were.

“No more yelling?” Quentin asked, hesitant and gently probing at how they used to tease each other so easily. They had always been so easy. They just fit. Two sides of the same coin. He’d always felt more full when Q was with him. 

“I didn’t come here to yell at you, Q,” Eliot sighed, eyes darting sadly to every corner of their living room and each detail - trying to commit them to memory. There’d been a lot he’d forgotten about. Fuck, he hadn’t come here to be this maudlin either. Eliot took another hard hit from his flask and spun the barstool away from his old life splayed all over the walls and bookshelves, able to finally look Quentin in the face knowing he no longer looked as broken as he felt. 

Quentin took a long drink of his beer as well, mirroring Eliot and using him for a forecast of emotional cues, and rolled his lips in a nervous tick that he always did when he was agitated. Eliot bit his tongue to keep from smirking at how he remembered the tell, even after all this time. With a nod, Q’s shoulders turned tense as if he was preparing for a blow from behind. “You’re just here for my signature.”

“At this point I probably could have forged it and dealt with less legal fees,” Eliot said plainly, taking the full brunt of Quentin’s frown and hard stare. “Do you think I enjoy this? Being here?” Being reminded so vividly of how much he’d left behind for the life he thought he wouldn’t be building all on his own. 

Or that he had to force himself to be such a vicious bitch to the one person he never wanted to do that to. Somewhere, deep down, Quentin knew he was being petty and mean on purpose. But he was also antagonizing every single combative instinct Eliot possessed (from growing up with three older brothers) and  _ that _ was also on purpose. Eliot wasn’t the only person that had changed over the years. Q was done dancing, that was very clear.

“You mean, being an absolute dick to try and make me kick you out?” Quentin elaborated, as if able to read Eliot’s thoughts - still. “Yeah, I think you enjoy that a little bit,” he said glibly, drinking from his beer to hide any more tells. His poker face was shit; but apparently he’d learned how to hide it with slight of hand and diversion tricks since Eliot had left. Always a magician at heart. 

“Is it working?” Eliot asked, pulling a face at the same time. This he could do. A verbal badminton game of snark and wits, the only sport he’d ever excelled at. One that he and Quentin could dish out without the screaming match that they had just endured out by the barn.

“Little bit,” Quentin admitted, scrunching his nose and trying to not pull a face back - or smile. That would be Eliot’s point if Q cracked a smile. He pointed to his head and twirled his finger, “I’m still devising a plan, up here, to get you out of this house and keeping you there - without a key, this time.”

“Oh, you mean this key?” Eliot asked, holding up the rust red hunk of medal they’d gotten from an Ace Hardware three towns over a decade previous. He then swished what was left in his flask audibly and made a show of weighing his options. “Yeah, this should be enough to help me swallow it.” 

Quentin’s hand struck out for the key and Eliot was almost too late clutching it to his chest. “Like you’d need help in that department,” Q accused, chiding, trying to throw El off his game. And then darting around the counter to snatch it out of Eliot’s hand while he sat there in shock at the  _ words _ that just came out of Quentin Coldwater’s mouth.

“The sheer  _ audacity _ ,” Eliot outright laughed, jumping up and holding the key high out of Quentin’s reach. “I must have some wood shavings in my ear or something, because I swear I just heard-”

“You heard me,” Quentin outright smirked, devilishly, and Eliot’s heart skipped right up his throat to choke off any retort he’d been preparing. “Seriously, give it back El.” He held out his hand, and when Eliot didn’t move he started to climb the barstool - hoping to take further advantage of Eliot’s stunned state. Eliot didn’t even have to do more than stretch his arm up further to hold the key out of Quentin’s grasp. Even with those long, deft fingers. “ _ Shit _ , I am not built for a tall husband. We’re not ten anymore, El, just give it back!” It wasn’t the plea that slackened Eliot’s composure, but - as usual - Quentin’s adorably rambling words spouted from a stream of consciousness he could still hear in his own head sometimes. They were standing way too close, Quentin half on top of the barstool and leaning so far over Eliot could see every flicker of color in his eyes when he looked at him in surprise. Eliot gave him the key a moment later, holding his breath until the other man retreated warily, mouth pressed tight and teeth clenched to hold what little poise he still held on to after they had scrambled at each other like children.

_ Remember why you’re here. _

“I’m not your husband, Q,” Eliot forced himself to say, as gentle and even as he could be. “I’m just… the only other queer kid in town, and we got too close.”

“Eliot,” Quentin said, his name reduced to a breath drawn in sharply. “W-We’ve been best friends since we were six years old.” 

“Yeah, we have,” Eliot acquiesced, unable to hide his reluctance with Quentin still standing so close in front of him. “Which honestly just puts this whole  _ gossamer _ on the entire situation.” He didn’t know how the other couldn’t see that. They had blinders on whenever they were in each other’s orbit, casting everything in a more romantic light than it probably deserved. “I wasn’t even brave enough to be out until we walked into that court house in Indianapolis senior year. I was never the brave one, that was all you,” his words bled away to tender admiration and it took every shred of self-control to keep looking at Quentin’s face as he spoke. The other man deserved that much, at the very least. “I was scared, and young, and you were the one thing I wanted to hold on to the tightest. And you let me.” 

There was so much more to it, they both knew that, but Eliot couldn’t let Q get a word in edgewise. Couldn’t let the fight he saw brewing in the other, threatening to bubble up and burst out of him, go any further than the bright sheen in his eyes.

“But I’m not that person anymore, Q,” Eliot said quietly, trying to convey the admission as best he could without looking away. “I grew up. Grew into someone else. I don’t even know that kid, anymore.”

Quentin remained silent, frowning with his jaw clenched tight, and barely blinking in his steady stare during Eliot’s speech. He looked like he didn’t believe him, or refused to, and was so visibly scrambling mentally for an out - a way to make sense of it all - that it just twisted the knife in Eliot’s gut all the more. Quentin wasn’t just going to try and compromise any longer, he was so prominently  _ angry _ it stunned Eliot all over again. The way it built so quietly, rumbling in its intensity, and  _ then _ \- then Q made a decision. It struck like lightning across his expression, steeling away any other emotions from Eliot’s view.

“Well, allow me to remind you,” he murmured darkly. Snatching his phone roughly off the counter, and disappearing a second later into what used to be their bedroom. The door slammed, and the lock clicked loudly in the silence left in his wake. Eliot could do nothing but sink down to the barstool once more, bury his face in his hands, and then scrub at his cheeks roughly to wake himself the fuck up. It wasn’t like he could  _ leave _ , not yet - not without what he came for.

He couldn’t go back to New York still married to his high school boyfriend, and he couldn’t just go back to the Waugh farm and waltz up the path to talk to his widowed  _ mother _ for the first time in years. That just left him sitting there at an empty kitchen counter with nothing but dust covered memories to stare at until Quentin came out of their room again.

However long that may be.

\--


	4. iii. The Past

-

 ** _MARIE CLAIRE MAGAZINE’S ANNUAL NEW YORK FASHION WEEK: DESIGNERS TO WATCH_ ** _  
_ _Follow the Yellow Brick Road: Eliot Waugh_ _  
_ _Literally born in a castle in the rolling green hills of the MidWest, Eliot Waugh of Knightsville, Indiana relocated to the big apple almost a decade ago to grace us all with designs and rich fabrics fit for royalty. Beadwork, embroidery, and extravagantly delicate designs one would expect from someone far more seasoned are just a few of the treatments in these fantastical pieces. But a Waugh gown is anything but a secret, among the New York Elite. Nearly two dozen different household names have worn his hand-stitched designer gowns (two of which can be proudly named_ **_haute couture_ ** _from a year he spent studying in Paris) before his first solo fashion show last week. Former mentor, Margo Hanson, is no stranger to the NYC celebrity spotlight, and she has trained her protègè well. But it does help coming from a background as prestigious and grounded in the old West’s ‘Old Money’._

 _  
_ _"A family fortune founded all the way back to Manifest Destiny, Waugh was destined to be locked forever into a business of properties and titles-_ my ass,” Martin Chatwin threw down the magazine he’d had his newest assistant pick up from a Newstand. He couldn’t even stand to look at Eliot Waugh’s face on the cover with his ‘former mentor’ Ms. Hanson - and he’d read the article at least three times already. Trying to pick apart the important details, but it was hard with all of the _glaring loopholes_ . “What happened to due diligence?” He knew for a fact Eliot Waugh was _not_ a part of some hidden wealthy family in bum-fuck nowhere. Sebastian (no, _Rupert_!) liked to chuckle like a child about it, and the fact Martin had been swayed to think so for even a second.

“There’s no listing for a _Bradford Waugh_ in Knighstville, Indiana,” his newest assistant, Todd, said as he hurried into the room adorned in a suit that was far too big for him. He’d come highly recommended as an intern, and he got the job done - though he tried Martin’s patience more often than was necessary. “Or any of the surrounding towns. There’s about six different Waugh families within a 50 mile radius, the closest being John and Genevieve Waugh, who are _corn_ farmers?” he added with a squint at the notes app on his phone.

“No, that’s not them,” Martin waved it off. He couldn’t imagine Eliot touching even a grain of dirt, there was no way he grew up on a farm. “What about the local high school?”

“The article said he didn’t attend school in Indiana, just a boarding school here on the East Coast. No specifics further than that,” Todd rattled off, finally looking up from his phone with a worried wince of defeat. “Do you know how many boarding schools there are in New England?” 

“Christ,” Martin muttered, standing up behind his desk and bracing himself against it. Even the sigils and gleaming ornamentations of the _Mayor’s_ Office, because he was the goddamn _mayor of New York City_ , could ease the suspicion creeping up the back of his neck angrily. “There’s something wrong with this picture.” There always had been. Even on the cover of the damn magazine there was _something there_ hidden behind the façade. Something sinister that Eliot Waugh did not want uncovered. It was right there in the dull glint of his eyes.

Todd leaned over and looked at the magazine cover Martin was staring at. “The picture looks okay to me? I’m no photographer-”

“Not the magazine, Todd!” Martin snapped. He didn’t get mad often, and he wasn’t mad at _Todd_ \- he was just a supremely easy deterrent for where Martin’s rage should have been directed. Just like his brother. “Why would Rupert do this? We had a _plan_ , then he had to go galavanting off to Europe for a decade and stumble into _this_ -” There were no polite words, and really Martin knew - logically - that he was being irrational about it. Eliot had been doing an internship in Paris for going on a year before he met Rupert. Rupert who had been back-packing or whatever to get over his long lost high school love, and by the photos had looked like a homeless hipster when he met Eliot. There was no way Eliot Waugh could have planted himself for fame or money, and he was doing very well on his own according to literally anyone Martin talked to. Martin _knew this_ , so why did he still not trust Eliot further than he could throw him? 

Call it bias, call it discrimination, being an overprotective brother - what have you. Martin trusted his gut, and it said Eliot Waugh was _lying_. He just didn’t know about what.

Why couldn’t Rupert see it too?

“Maybe he… loves him?” Todd tried to intervene. Martin didn’t know how much of his thoughts he’d muttered out loud, but he didn’t pay Todd for his opinion. 

“Please. Rupert has only ever loved one person, beyond this family, and I _highly doubt_ he would find himself head over heels for anyone else after just eight months of dating.”

“It’s actually been ten months, and three weeks,” Todd corrected, after consulting his phone. Then at Martin’s glare shrank back like a dying flower. 

“It’s no matter,” Martin suddenly chirped, shaking off the dark anger clouding his vision and sliding right back into his Mayor face like switching masks in a drama. By Todd’s shocked expression, he still wasn’t quite used to it yet. Martin Chatwin savored being only remotely passable as human. “The truth always comes out, when it concerns big events like this. He can’t hide forever, it’s only a matter of time.” With a slight crick and pop of his neck, looking out the vast office windows to a view that stretched out over Central Park, Martin paused and considered his next move. He spun on his heel and with a smile requested, “Get Rupert on the phone. I’d like to have a chat.”

-

“-and let’s all thank the Secretary of Housing for being here at our ground-breaking ceremony,” the woman in the pressed pantsuit said loudly to the small crowd of donors and news reporters, Sebastian shaking the woman’s hand after she cut the ribbon on the lot for the next free clinic in the Bronx. He didn’t like much about his job, it wasn’t exactly thrilling, but it was fun to use the city’s exuberant money delegation in a way that actually _benefited_ the city for once. And it pissed off a lot of big cats at city hall, who then harassed his brother. Win, win, and a win. 

It was so easy to hold a smile for the news outlets when he looked at it all like that.

“Well, don’t you look chipper,” a familiar British accent said behind him, catching him as he tried to duck out of the deluge of questions thrown at him from the crowd of reporters. He turned to see a very welcomed prim smile and accepted the hug from his baby sister, Jane Eliza Chatwin - the newest district attorney for downtown New York. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Why thank you,” he grinned a little wider. That always happened when he thought about Eliot. “You come all the way down here just to see me?”

“If it flatters you to think so, sure,” Eliza quipped, her accent not nearly as diluted as his own - but she did actually attend school and live in England. Unlike himself, who merely walked every back country road for a couple years. “But I also have a meeting up the block, so I can’t be long. I just wanted to come and gossip,” she said with a smirk. They both knew who about, and Sebastian offered to walk her to her appointment so they got a good couple jabs in. “So - I saw the pictures, literally everywhere.”

“You see Martin’s face?” Sebastian laughed, not able to contain his glee. He knew Eliot had wanted to keep it a secret, and Sebastian had definitely _planned_ on respecting his fiancè’s wishes, but he also was not sad that Martin figured it out. “I thought his head was going to burst.”

“I’m sure he pulled you aside later. Come one, out with it! What did he say?” Eliza pried, unashamed at the gossipy bitch she was. Sebastian was the same, only a little more discrete, so he tried to school his face a little because - at the time - it hadn’t been a funny situation.

“That I should date men like Eliot, as often as I’d like. But they aren’t for marrying.”

Eliza puffed out a sigh. “That’s a little harsh.”

“That’s Martin,” Sebastian concluded, and Eliza didn’t argue. He’d had some choice words about Eliza’s new career path when she announced it a few years prior. She’d given him a single-fingered salute and finished her tea unapologetically, and that was that. Martin had taken up the patriarchal role of the family after Sebastian abandoned it, but he did often need reminding that he was _no one’s_ father. 

“I was hoping for something a little more juicy,” Eliza pouted, weaving her arm through her older brother’s and having him escort her over the uneven sidewalks surrounding the block. Then, like it had been summoned by her comment, Sebastian’s phone began to ring and displayed Martin’s smug face proudly.

“Speak of the devil, and he shall come calling,” Sebastian mocked, Eliza laughing as they untangled and Sebastian held the phone to his ear. “Marty, how wonderful. I was just talking about you.”

“All lies, I hope,” Martin said with what sounded like a very forced easy smile. “And don’t call me Marty.”

“Of course,” Sebastian chided, and Eliza giggled as she pressed her ear to the other side of his iphone so she could hear. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” 

“Just checking in,” Martin chimed, swiveling in his desk chair and Sebastian could practically _see_ it from here. “Have you and Prince Charming set a date yet?”

“I’m going to have to plead the fifth on that one, dear brother,” Sebastian admitted, and Eliza rolled her eyes at him. He pinched her side in reprimand and she shrank back in laughter. 

“Fine then, keep your secrets. What’s a couple more.”

“What are you talking about?” Sebastian asked with a laugh, causing Eliza to snap back to his phone like a magnet to see what she missed.

“Oh nothing, just doing some digging,” Martin said as if they wouldn’t catch the hint. Both Eliza and Sebastian rolled their eyes at that, to each other, and stifled their laughter. “Well, you sound happy.”

“As do you, change of heart?”

“The public seems to like being reminded I am just a humble human being - with a family,” Martin sighed, a necessary evil in his opinion. “My approval ratings went up overnight, so I guess have you and Eliot to thank for that.”

“I’ll pass along the message,” Sebastian said. 

“Say, by chance - do you have the number for Eliot’s parents in Indiana? I’d like to call and schedule a late summer retreat, give the families a chance to meet somewhere off the grid.” He almost sounded _sincere_ when he said it, like he’d practiced in front of his secretary or something, and Sebastian blinked because - that was actually a very sweet idea. But he didn’t believe that his brother had those intentions in their entirety.

“Uh, actually that sounds wonderful. But I would really like to meet them myself, first, if you don’t mind.” Sebastian said, sliding away from his sister and keeping her at arm’s length. Completely ignoring her hand signals and facial expressions trying to get his attention. “I’m not sure when we were planning on that, but I know Eliot was going to at least talk with his parents first-”

“Rupert, please listen and actually hear me,” Martin said in a tone Sebastian hadn’t heard in years. “The press are already all over this, with your stature and Eliot’s recent occupational success, so we do really need to meet with them and _prepare_ them for what is about to happen.” 

“Again, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sebastian admitted, eyebrows knitted together and finally looking at Eliza who just raised her hands in confusion. 

“ _Happy couple don’t sell_. Mum and Dad went through it their entire marriage, and you know how Aunt Edna and Uncle George ended up. So if there’s anything going on, anything Eliot has omitted from mentioning purely out of a desire to forget about it - and no one is blaming him, there - we need to be on top of it.”

“I’m not sure I like your tone, Martin,” Sebastian said, frowning and already feeling his hackles raise.

“Everyone has skeletons in their closet Rupert, even you. Even me. Even Eliot.”

Sebastian hung up the phone. He knew his brother wouldn’t take offense to it, because it was as good as a declaration of victory. He couldn’t even hear Eliza trying to dig more information out of him. Yes, he knew he had secrets, and that Eliot had a few as well. He kept getting the feeling that Eliot’s upbringing wasn’t the sunshine and roses stated in the articles he’d interviewed for. If he wasn’t engaged to Sebastian, that probably would have stayed that way - but Martin was right. Whatever Eliot had been shying away from in the limo the night before, they needed to know if it was going to be a problem.

Before some tabloid decided to _make_ it one for them.

-

Eliot was sitting on the couch, flipping through TV channels idly (because they still used cable out here instead of just streaming services, he’d lost service on his phone twice in just their living room) when Quentin finally emerged from the bedroom. It had been about an hour, and Eliot looked back in surprise because - honestly, he’d thought Q would hole up for far longer than that. El had already started making peace with the fact he’d end up sleeping on the couch. 

“You’re a clothing designer up there, right?” Quentin asked, off-handed and holding something close to his chest. He was such a terrible poker player, he could never hide anything from Eliot. Whatever it was he thought he was going to throw Eliot for a loop; as if he ever could. _Come at me, Coldwater_.

“I design gowns, yes. One of a kind, by commission. You aren’t going to find one at JC Penny,” he huffed to himself. _Clothing_. He didn’t make clothing, he made art. Poured his heart and soul into his work, it took weeks just to complete one dress, and that was with a small army of seamstresses at his back. Before he’d been big enough to hire people to help, one gown could take him months to finish. 

He saw Quentin in the kitchen out of the corner of his eye, nodding and trying to hide a smirk behind his still half-full beer. “So, you wouldn’t have designed anything that resembles an orange jumpsuit?” He took a long pull from the bottle, looking right at Eliot, just as the red and blue lights pulled up to the house and flickered through the front windows. Eliot’s head _whipped_ around, dreading the sight of the brown and gold patrol car he knew was about to hit its bumper on the porch.

But there it was, bright and glaring, _Rush County_ on the side and the sound of a car door slamming shut.

“You called _the sheriff?!_ ” 

There’s a very big difference between calling the cops on your neighbor in the city, and calling the cops on your neighbor in the boonies. Usually because the officer knocking on your door _was_ your neighbor, nine times out of ten. That didn’t mean you couldn’t get into real trouble, or the officer wouldn’t take you in just for shits and giggles, but it was a lot less violent than what even Eliot had experienced up in New York. A part of him, the New Yorker, was telling him to get out while he could - but the MidWestern boy, who saw the look on Quentin’s face that said he _knew_ something Eliot didn’t, told him that’s just what Q wanted.

Eliot jumped to his feet and retreated to the back of the house, looking for his things because he was very much considering just making a break for it. The patrol car wasn’t blocking his rental, he could duck out the kitchen side door and cut through the barnyard without being noticed. “That old fuck hates my guts and you know it,” Eliot spat out, weaving his way past Q at the counter - who was grinning like a loon - only to slide to a stop at the silhouette approaching the side door. Since when was Quentin buddies with the sheriff’s department? With a very non-dignified spin Eliot tried to run for the front; but Q was already sauntering up to open the kitchen door like it was his damn birthday, and the whole encounter was going to be the present he always wanted. Which really didn’t make sense - something was going on here. “HOW COULD YOU, Q!” 

“JUST TRYING TO HELP!” Quentin shouted back, gleeful, the side door creaking open followed quickly by the sound of silence. “Wh-”

There was a murmur in the kitchen Eliot couldn’t catch, but he wasn’t about to stick around to try. He was almost out the door, his work satchel and the papers in hand, when the clunk of boots on the kitchen floor neared him enough he knew he was spotted. 

“Well, shit. If that’s who I think it is, I’m going to need some back-up.” That was _not_ the old ass Sheriff McCallister that Eliot remembered vividly in his nightmares. That was a very husky, feminine voice with a tone of disbelief and a smirk painted among the syllables. He turned slowly, arms half-raised, and was floored by the sight of a very gorgeous woman with a mane of curly dark hair tamed by a single hair tie and a gun on her hip. “I don’t think I’m any match for Waugh the Outlaw. We still got wanted posters in the breakroom.”

“Are they drawn in crayon?” Eliot asked, amazed he could get the words out before his face broke into a smile so wide it was contagious. Kady Orloff-Diaz didn’t crack a smile often, but that grin she returned was breathtaking. She flat out ran at him and he swept her up in a bone-crushing hug filled with laughter. “You scared the absolute shit out of me, I can’t believe you’re the sheriff! What the hell are you doing in law enforcement?”

“Making the world a better place and shit,” Kady grinned, looking him up and down after he set her down on her feet. “I’m the youngest county sheriff in the past three decades, eat that.”

“Impressive,” Eliot smirked, bowing to her extravagantly and enjoying how a snort burst out of her to mask the impulse to chuckle.

“Look at you, I can barely recognize you,” Kady said, taking his hand without preamble and making him spin right there in the yellowed kitchen lights. The curly haired, four-eyed, flannel smothered 20-year-old that left seven years ago had evolved into someone much more polished and put together. Yes, he’d lost quite a bit of the muscle definition that farm work had given him growing up, leaving behind a slimmer frame that had taken time to navigate, but now he stood a little taller with his shoulders back and head high. Never ducking down to hide his face, shrinking his full height, curling his shoulders in to fortify his stance; he learned he could stand just as strong without once having to give in to those instincts engrained from his childhood. The confidence it brought was enough to separate him from who he was and who had arrived in town that day. 

“Not bad, huh?” he teased, not minding being spun like a model in a showroom. He’d done it enough to others over the years it was nice to be on the receiving end. He knew he looked good. Quentin was very pointedly not watching them. 

“You look like you run a speakeasy hidden in a brick wall.”

“Kady,” Quentin finally broke in, shaking them from their reunion. “Could you try and be a _little_ professional? Please?”

“About what? It’s Eliot!” Kady laughed, the joy in her face quickly dissolving at Quentin’s even stare until her mouth was half open in shock. “Wait, you’re serious?” Even Eliot had had a moment of elation thinking that Q was pulling one over on him, just giving him a jump scare before switching tactics to parading all their friends from high school in front of him to make him homesick. (To be fair, it was kind of working until that moment). It was then he realized Quentin had planned on Eliot making a break for it, and was now having to follow through on his bluff. “O-kay, what’s your complaint?”

“He doesn’t _live here_ anymore, Kady,” Q pointed out. He was doing his best to make it seem sincere, bless his soul, but from the quick looks Kady was darting between them Eliot knew she could smell something fishy about the whole situation. Quentin wasn’t going to tell her he just wanted El out because he wanted to enforce his ultimatum - or stall, for whatever reason. “Not that he’s any stranger to the workings of a B&E.”

“He’s not happy I climbed down his chimney,” Eliot said in a teasing, airy tone that was somehow still a stage-whisper. Kady was doing her utmost not to crack another smile. Eliot had a direct line to her funny bone, and he knew it. 

“El, you can’t just show up and break in,” Kady chided, using her ‘authority’ voice that Eliot had _never_ heard before - but honestly, he could dig it. 

“Is it still breaking and entering if I used my own key?” he asked with a tilt of his head. Kady just shook hers in response, the quirk of a smile threatening to break out across her face.

“Still ain’t your house, hun.”

“If you use your cuffs I’m sure he’d leave willingly,” Quentin chimed in, making Eliot sneer his direction in a very childish manner he was not proud of. This whole thing was absurd, Kady wasn’t going to _arrest_ Eliot for breaking into his own house. She’d known him and Q since before their balls dropped. 

“Look, if he signs the papers I will _happily_ leave,” Eliot offered, flashing a very charming smile Kady’s direction. “With Rush County’s finest on my arm, to boot.”

“What papers?” Without giving Quentin a chance to sputter out an argument Eliot produced said papers from his satchel, still ready and waiting for the man across the room to _get with the program_. Kady took them from him and skimmed them a bit without stepping out of his personal space. “A bill of divorcement?” she sounded legitimately confused, and turned to Quentin holding them up in the same manner Eliot had done earlier that afternoon. “Q, I thought you two did this years ago?”

“So did I!” Quentin proclaimed, brandishing the beer still in his hand dramatically. 

“Bitch, _please_ ,” Eliot scoffed. There was no way he hadn’t opened all those legal documents or known what they were. 

“Well, that sucks for you,” Kady said, handing the papers back to Eliot then shifting away with her hands on her belt - badge, gun, handcuffs, god it was still such a trip. Sheriff Orloff-Diaz. El had smoked weed with Kady every day between third and fourth period for three years in school. “Because according to the great County of Rush, if you two are still married, that means the house was never assigned in the divorce. So, Eliot’s not breaking in. It’s still his house, too.”

“You can’t be serious! He’s been in New York for seven years!” Quentin exclaimed, and Eliot bit back a triumphant smile. Swaying a little bit as he also fought bumping shoulders or hips with Kady in comradery, it was so nice to feel like _someone_ had his back in this whole damn state. To Q it must have looked like a barely suppressed Happy Dance because his expression darkened. 

Kady watched the exchange, finally crossing her arms like she couldn’t believe what was in front of her. “God, it’s been that long? You know you two are in basically every memory I ever had of high school. And Middle School. Including the night we crashed my brother’s senior night out by the sandbars, Travis was so fucking pissed-”

“Kady,” Quentin snapped, rubbing the bridge of his nose - the entire situation obviously paining him physically now that it had been swept away from him. “Could we not? It’s not the best time for a reunion right now.” 

From the raised eyebrows and stern press of her lips that had _not_ been the right thing to say.

“Oh, I think this might be the perfect time,” she added with a forcefully cheery note, looking between them again. How did Eliot get roped into that conspiring stare, it did not look like he was going to be in on the instigation part of it. “I think I’ll leave you two to do some more ‘catching up’. You obviously have a lot to talk about.” Now Eliot’s stare was hard with an air of _how dare you_.

 _Them’s the breaks_ , was the returning quirk of a smirk in reply. 

Quentin was crossing the room in an instant, already starting up his argument again. “There’s got to be something you can do, Kady please-”

“Why are you acting like there isn’t an out to all of this,” Eliot interrupted, talking over him, “just _sign the damn papers_ and I’ll go!”

“Hey!” Kady shouted, shutting them both up. “Look, Eliot has done nothing wrong. I’m not just going to arrest him because you don’t want to talk to him, Q. Unless he committed some kind of crime, I’m not taking him in for you.” She was starting to look very insulted that that was what it had come to in the first place. She seemed about one more second thought from slapping the man upside the head. 

With his mouth open and moving like a fish out of water, Quentin was mentally scrambling for purchase and Eliot couldn’t help it. He was loving it. That smile he had been trying to hold back, he let it loose and didn’t regret it one bit. Even when Q caught sight and a determined set to his jaw finalized that resolve he’d been grasping for.

“You mean like shoplifting cigarettes from the 7-eleven in Knightstown?” 

Eliot gaped, and Kady’s eyebrows somehow rose even further. 

“When I was _ten_ ,” Eliot insisted, aghast that Quentin would dare to bring that up. “And - AND! We took them back, it was before I smoked! They put up all the cigs behind the counter when we were in Middle School.”

“And whose fault was that?” Quentin asked, insinuating without saying it out right and Eliot’s sharp eyes narrowed. Two could play this game.

“Pretty sure it was whoever was lifting cigarillos to roll joints,” he pointed out sweetly, dipping in its toxicity.

“Actually, that was me,” Kady said, raising her hand a little but very obviously enjoying the show. 

“What about the vandalism out by the rock quarry in sophomore year?” Quentin near shouted, stepping in front of Kady’s path to the nearest exit. Everyone knew about that one.

“Like I could break in and spray paint without a look out - or should I say _accomplice_ .” Eliot basically hissed the word in all the right places, and Kady was _definitely_ trying not to laugh at them now. 

“Wait - that was you two?!”

“I plead the fifth,” Eliot deadpanned, a verbal side note that had Kady hiding that smirk behind her hand.

“And I plead coercion,” Quentin added.

“My ass, it was your idea,” Eliot countered. “Just like stealing your daddy’s boat for our _own_ senior sandbar party.” That had been a _night_ to remember, but Quentin was not going to look back at it with fond memories. They had torn up the underside of that boat with roots on the river.

“Right here guys,” Kady chimed in. “I was there, too. I brought the good booze, if you care to remember me at all.” Eliot had the decency to look ashamed, and Quentin was just sliding fast into panic. “Seriously, my whole childhood had you two front and center. There’s not much that was big that I wasn’t there for, so - nice try, Q.” Then she shouldered past them and left Quentin fumbling at thin air. 

“We did _so much_ and got into all sorts of trouble on the farms!” he burst out, now only locked eyes with Eliot - who was giving him all the nonverbal warnings. They had sworn themselves to secrecy. Pinky swore. “We - we, uh, oh! Hay bale jumping! We broke the loader at the Waugh Farm and blamed it on a bear! They were looking for that bear for weeks!” Eliot’s jaw dropped, he’d made the tracks from his old Zoobooks with the most detailed accuracy an eleven-year-old could make. That was their first big con.

Kady turned to look at them, at Eliot’s shocked face, shook her head and kept heading towards the kitchen side door. 

“Or, that time we sliced through my dad’s jeep radiator with a chainsaw!” They didn’t know how heavy or powerful it got when it was turned on! Or how to work it! Eliot apologized about that for years after. 

“Jesus!” Kady exclaimed, taking one final turn and leaning on the kitchen counter to look at them over the stove top interior window. “How are you two still alive!?”

“Wonders never cease,” Eliot gritted out between his teeth. 

“Quentin, listen: we all have done a whole slew of stupid shit over the years,” Kady said in an even and very forced out tone. “There is something at every turn in the river if we lay it all out. So unless you have concrete proof or an actual claim filed somewhere I can’t help you. No proof, no cuffs.” 

“Between our graduating class alone I’m sure we’ve joyridden or crashed every big rig and tractor from here to Raytown,” Eliot sighed, leaning against the center pillar wall and not basking in his victory. Not a bit. 

Especially not when Quentin was getting that look on his face that showed he was connecting dots that no one else was going to see. It made this cute crease between his eyes and a firm set to his mouth that always used to make Eliot want to kiss it right off him and derail his train of thought. The memory was a pleasant one, what it was about to sow was _not_ \- and Eliot felt dread creeping up his throat in anticipation. 

Then the skies cleared in Q’s eyes, and his whole face lit up in recognition.

“WAIT!” he shouted, stopping Kady just as she’d opened the back door and was stepping out. Quentin was half spun into the kitchen, finger pointed towards her and everything. “Isn’t there still an outstanding warrant for whoever drove your grandma’s tractor into the river on prom night?”

Eliot gasped so long and loud he was ashamed he was gay.

Kady slowly shut the door, one hand on her belt, lips pressed so tightly together Eliot didn’t bother to say a word in his defense. 

It was a very awkward time to wonder if Ms. Lipson still worked in booking, because if she did Eliot owed her $20 for losing their bet. He did indeed end up getting his mugshots updated before he turned 30. 

\--


	5. iv. The Farm

-

Eliot stared at the payphone in the lobby for a full 10 minutes, flipping a quarter through his fingers in an old habit that Quentin had taught them when they were ten and he was going through his close-up magic phase. The first time around. He couldn’t remember very many numbers off the top of his head that were actually in Indiana, that’s what the address book app was for. He had Alice’s number, but she hadn’t answered and Kady mentioned something about how she didn’t think she could front him the bail so it was for the best. Which was confusing, and alarming, and Eliot put a pin in that to ask about later.

Plus - you know, it’d been seven years. He burned a lot of bridges leaving town the way he did.

The only other phone numbers he knew were Quentin, who was not going to pick him up, and home. 

He didn’t want to call home.

There were a lot of reasons calling from the sheriff’s department payphone, after not speaking to them since he’d heard about the funeral he didn’t attend, was a bad idea. He’d had a very misdemeanor-heavy childhood. The amount of shit he would get for being arrested before he even made it home to say hello was… monumental, and he didn’t really want to think about that. 

He also didn’t want to think about how he had no idea what dynamic to expect when he called. He knew what would have happened when he was young; who would have answered, who would have picked him up from the station, how that drive home would have gone. It was creating a very visceral reaction or trepidation; sweat breaking out across his forehead from just the stroll down memory lane.

But his dad was dead. This was going to be different. The only thing he knew for sure was his mom was going to be the one answering the phone. It did nothing to comfort him, but it at least gave him the illusion he was prepared. 

With a final glance down the hallway at Kady by the check-in desk, Eliot slipped the quarter into the payphone and punched in the numbers heavily. The damn thing was older than he was. But the dial clicked over to a ring, connecting him to his past just five miles up the road. 

"Hello?" 

God, he knew that tone. Could hear exactly what she had said before she picked up the phone as if it was echoing in the background.  _ Who would be calling at this hour? _ No 'Waugh residence', no 'Ginny speaking, may I ask who's calling?', just the subtext behind a semi-decent greeting. 'Don't you know it's a week night? Don't you have a job to go to in the morning?'

Eliot found his eyes rolled up to the ceiling, and forced the words from his mouth before he chickened out and decided to just spend the night in a jail cell.

"Hi, mom," he put a smile in his voice, felt it try to lift the corners of his mouth stubbornly. As fake as fake could be. But through the ancient landlines and rickety phone speaker, it must have sounded genuine. His mother gasped and then shrieked out his name.

" _ Eliot? _ ! Oh my god, what are you -" a short pause as she shuffled to look for a clock and must have realized it was on the old digital screen of the phone in her hand. "My word, it's so late. Are you okay?"

Eliot had to blink and hold composure, because that was something that his mother would have definitely said - but on the phone and so openly, that was a new development that required at least some recognition. “I’m fine, I just - wanted to surprise you,” he finally went with, stumbling over his words.

The laughter was a shocked one, and Eliot felt it hit his stomach sourly. “Color me surprised then. It’s been so long, and I know you’ve been so busy up in New York what with your job and your clothes - of course, we’re always up before the sun so I manage to find time to call people  _ once _ in a while. I just never know when to call  _ you _ with the time change, being so far away-”

“Mom,” Eliot cut in, her rambling words spilling over his already rattled nerves like salt water on an open wound. Stinging and probably necessary, but also overpowering how he got there in the first place. “Mom, the phone call isn’t the surprise.”

“What? Do you - oh my god! Are you in town!?” his mother gasped, pulling the declaration straight out from under him and throwing off his balance once more. “Really? You’re coming to visit? Are you at the airport? Oh thank heavens my baby boy is finally coming home.” 

“Mom! Mom, I’m already here-”

“Daniel! DANIEL! Eliot’s coming home!” his mother’s voice echoed tinly and Eliot found himself leaning against the wall with his hand already pressing into his forehead, teasing at the hairline like he could magically stave off a headache. She was making it sound like he was moving back, and that alone pricked at his disposition that so  _ very much _ wanted to slide into snappish - and that was not how the first phone call he’d had with his mother in years was going to go. “He’s on the phone right now!”

“You don’t have to shout I’m right here,” his oldest brother’s voice carried over the speaker and Eliot felt that exasperation on a spiritual level. Dan never could sound annoyed, though. He had the zen thing down to a science. But what the hell was he doing at the farmhouse at ten at night? Was he living at home? “And if you’re just going to repeat everything he says you can get off my chair, I can hear him fine. Hi, El,” Daniel said, leaning closer and speaking through the otherside of the phone. 

“Evening, Daniel,” Eliot drawled, lulling his head back forward and staring very hard at the wall opposite him. “Nice to know someone is listening to me.”

“Nice accent,” Dan teased, the two speaking over their mother who was back to rambling how she was just sitting there so he could be a part of the conversation. 

“Mom,” Eliot tried to catch her attention, and failed spectacularly. He had gotten very good at not being ignored in New York, but his mother could talk over a freight train.

“And turn that down, I can barely hear myself think,” she told Daniel, the scratch of the phone speaker against her sweater muffling everything.

“Mom. Mother. Mom.” Eliot thunked his head against the wall every time he had to say her name. Kady was probably down the hall snickering and recording his end of the conversation to turn into a new ringtone. He sounded like Stewie from Family Guy. 

“It’s barely on! And I was here first,” Daniel proclaimed, petulantly - confirming to Eliot that he was indeed living at home. 

“MOM.” She had the phone away from her ear, he couldn’t fucking believe it. He shook his head and glared at everything surrounding him. 

“I could hear it clear in the kitchen!” 

“Because you have the ears of a hawk,” Dan mentioned and Eliot huffed. Incredulous, because his mom could always hear everything except when her children were calling for her. Nothing had fucking changed. He turned and tapped the received (none too gently) against the pay phone to make a more jarring noise. 

“Hello?” she dared to say, like she had just started the conversation.

“I only get five minutes,” Eliot ground out, snappish and already tense from his altercations with Quentin and then being  _ fucking arrested _ by one of his high school friends. Now he had to maneuver himself through this new Waugh family dynamic that he had not prepared for, or planned on needing to be prepared for. 

Okay, yes, so he’d lied to Quentin back at the house. About a lot of things - but in relevance here he’d lied about his intentions once he had finished with Q. Eliot most definitely thought he could slip past his family, get the papers signed, and then leave before having to actually see them. He didn’t care if they found out by watching TMZ that he was getting married again. He hadn’t reached out to them, and in turn they hadn’t reached out to him, in all the years that passed. Save for the one voicemail where he learned his father was dead and they would be holding a funeral for him. He hadn’t answered them, they hadn’t followed up. It was a mutual agreement, and now that Eliot had broken it there was no stopping what came next. 

Especially because the next step went beyond this phone call. There would be no bygones tonight.

“Oh sweetheart, you didn’t have to call to surprise us! Just come by the house, I can get a bed set up before you get here-”

Oh, the combined guilt and petty anger was such a fun cocktail, he’d almost forgotten what it tasted like in the back of his throat. 

“Actually, that’s why I’m calling first,” Eliot said, rolling his lips and sucking in a breath that pressed tightly against his chest. The threat of this all snowballing out of control was very high. Thank god he had about 30 seconds left of his call. “I was hoping maybe someone could come pick me up?”

A heavy pause. “From the airport?” his mom’s high pitched voice rang out, still trying to maintain the enthusiasm it held before. The strain was so prominent to Eliot’s ears he caught himself grinding his teeth together. She said it like he’d somehow forgotten it was a 2 hour drive to the airport, one way.

“No, I’m already here,” he repeated his earlier statement. “Just down the road.” He let the declaration hang in the air between them, the silence on the other end of the phone so heavy he could practically  _ see _ the nonverbal conversation his mom and Daniel were having. They knew exactly where ‘down the road’ meant. 

“Dan’s on his way.” 

Unfortunately for Eliot, he got to hear the rare but recognizable sound of Unsurprised Disappointment in his mother’s words. 

“...than-” the phone clicked and cut off his words as his five minutes expired, dial tone blaring in his ear, and Eliot let it clatter to the receiver with an old school chime before he went back to staring at the ceiling. 

Honestly, that went just about as horribly as he had expected it would.

-

Going through the motions of being released was just as monotone and boring as he remembered the last time it happened. Twenty-years-old and sporting a shiner that would not be subdued by concealer for the first week and a half, staving off a hangover and throbbing headache; but this time it wouldn’t be Quentin standing on the other side of the gated doors waiting for him. Officer Lipson handed him his phone and wallet, his rings with a high raised brow at how the engagement ring shined under the fluorescent lights, and then handed him his paperwork about how to get his rental car out of impound. 

She then also left her hand out, lips pressed to hold back the smile the situation did not warrant, until Eliot looked between her outstretched hand and her face.

With a shake of his head, he fished through his wallet and slapped a $20 bill in her palm. 

“Thank you,” she chirped, slipping it into her back pocket and barely containing the list to her lips. “Missed seeing you around here, Waugh.”

“You better buy wine with that,” he told her, an old inside joke that made her snort, and took the packet of papers and his effects off the counter in one swipe. 

Past the gates for holding, he waited and was buzzed through to the reception area and saw only one person waiting there. Apparently, no one else had gotten arrested that night in Rush County, none that could make bail anyway. He alone was holding up their quota. Kady owed him a damn drink. 

Daniel Waugh pushed himself up from the seat he’d been lounging in, half asleep under a baseball cap and wrapped up in an old brown leather jacket he’d had since college. He and Eliot were so obviously related it was kind of eerie. They had the same eyes, same wide smile, cleft chin, but Dan had gotten their mom’s straight nose and dad’s wider square jaw. Skin that could actually tan without burning. None of that had faded with time. He was also still built like he was an active draft pick quarterback. Maybe a little softer around the middle but it went unnoticed to anyone who wasn’t looking. Before Eliot could get a word out, his brother pulled him into a tight hug as if they were actually just meeting at the airport. Those arms were like tree-trunks. “Only you could look like a million bucks after spending half the night in a jail cell,” he said with laughter in his voice, beaming and keeping an arm around Eliot’s shoulders. He had never been this tactile with Eliot in their  _ life _ . “Good to see you, El.”

“Yeah,” Eliot said slowly, easing out of his brother’s embrace. “You too, Dan. You… look good.” It wasn’t a lie, that was for damn sure. All three of his older brothers had always been the epitome of the perfect male specimens, in the various forms of stereotypical All-American boys. The jock, the class president, the rebel that was going places, and then there was him - the outlier, the weirdly quiet one, the one that didn’t quite fit but you couldn’t put your finger on the reason. Spoilers as to why. He guessed it was too much to hope that only Eliot would be the one to grow up and glow up, make something of himself, because Dan could show up for a GQ cover photoshoot and no one would bat an eye. 

It did sound a lot like he’d been living at home, though, and that alone was enough to make Eliot doubt what he saw in front of him. 

“Farmwork never sleeps,” Daniel said with a shrug, side-stepping the compliment and then bumping Eliot’s shoulder companionably. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” he droned, sighing before he could stop himself. To his credit, Dan at least gave him an apologetic look.

“It’s late, just hug her and fake a yawn and you’ll be golden.” At Eliot’s blink of surprise, Dan’s grin turned sheepish. “At least until morning, but you can sleep in too. You did travel all day, after all. I’ll cover you.” They stepped out into the cool summer air and Eliot felt the tense frown of his face ease a bit. He wasn’t the only theater kid in the family, he suddenly remembered, and he graced his brother’s profile with a slight upturn of his own lips. Ever so slight, barely even there.

“You always were my favorite.”

“Of course I was,” Dan scoffed, climbing into the white Ford pick-up that was actually tall enough to suit him, tossing his hat back on top of Eliot’s suitcase and work satchel in the bench seat there. When he had gotten them, Eliot had no idea. “I work hard to hold on to that title,” he said with a smirk. 

Spending every waking moment together every summer of their childhood had left all four Waugh boys very intune with their nuances and expressional ticks. A fist-fight could be started with just a certain twitch of someone’s mouth. He would recognize the surprise in Eliot’s eyes, confusion that his brother went out of his way to take care of him, tension in his mouth left over by the stress of the day, and apprehension that was so heavy it was threatening to curve his spine forward so he shrunk in on himself just like he always had as a teenager. 

But Eliot wasn’t a teenager any more. He threw his shoulders back and kept his head high even in the passenger side of the truck cabin. Sniffing in indignation, he quickly texted Margo that he was fine after hours of radio silence, and that ‘DESPERATION’ was not a good code word for an S.O.S. Stephen King references aside.

“So,” Dan said, not even bothering with the XM stations. “This brings back memories.” Eliot looked up at him, unimpressed. “What were you in for this time?”

“Q, and his incessant ability to ruin my life with every breath he takes,” Eliot muttered, backlit by his phone screen.

“... so nothing’s changed, huh?” he said with a fond smile, earning a very scathing glare in the process. Not that it would bother him in the slightest, Daniel could take anything and it’d just slide right off his back without blinking an eye. “Don’t give me that look, you two tripped over each other trying to keep the other out of trouble. You always took the fall when it came to the law, and I can’t even count how many times that kid returned the favor when it came to the Old Man. So I guess one thing has changed,” he said absently, like the truck cabin didn’t amplify sound around the sputtering engine and gravel crunching under the tires. Dan turned his head just the slightest to make sure Eliot was still looking at him - he was, he  _ really  _ would rather be looking at his phone, but the screen went dark on the sleep timer and Eliot gave in to the lecture. “He stopped taking your shit.”

“I am  _ not _ the one in the wrong here,” Eliot fumed, gaping at the gall of the other man. 

“Tell that to Kady’s nana.”

Eliot gaped amore, snapped his mouth shut, and glared out the windshield. All that was visible were the fences on either side of the road, and sometimes a stray stubborn painted line in the middle of the worn in asphalt. He couldn’t believe the words he was hearing with his own ears, but then again - he was reminded how nothing really  _ had _ changed in the seven years he’d been gone. Same bullshit, same passive-aggression, same dread in the pit of his stomach at each mile marker they passed that brought him closer to his childhood home. Even though the reason for that dread was no longer there to strike fear into his very being. This was supposed to be easier.

“I can’t believe you’re still siding with him,” Eliot said, words spilling from his lips angry and hurt before he could take them back. “Even after all this time.” There was a double-edged meaning to his statement, and as much as he wished Dan hadn’t heard it he  _ knew _ he fucking did. That was part of the reason he had left years ago. Not that Dan sided with Quentin on a lot of things he had no say in, but that he’d never been on  _ his  _ side. Eliot was no stranger to being left to fend for himself, the weakest of the herd or whatever. It shouldn’t be a shock that he was still on his own. He was the one that alienated the entire state of Indiana and all its inhabitants - and personally, he thought he was better off for it. 

“I’m not siding with him!” Daniel argued, in that  _ annoying as fuck _ tone that didn’t even sound like arguing. A declaration that held more heart than Eliot ever remembered hearing from him without a giant side helping of guilt. For the both of them. Daniel always felt guilty around Eliot and they both never had to talk about why. “You - You’re my brother, El, I’m always on your side.”

Eliot wasn’t going to even dignify that with a response. 

The only reason Daniel always got the brunt of Eliot’s wrath, and was the only one really hurt by it, was because he was the only one that really cared. Eliot swallowed hard, and looked down at the phone in his hands but didn’t turn it on. Daniel was the only one who ever even pretended to be on his side. So he sighed and looked out the window and didn’t voice any number of things that the situation could have called for. He heard his brother sigh beside him as well in the tense silence - soon followed by a sharp intake of breath because Dan couldn’t stand the quiet for longer than ten seconds.

“-I’m just saying, he’s changed a  _ lot _ , and done some really cool th-”

“Could we just not talk about Quentin!? I know everyone decided to adopt him long before we ever got married, but maybe you’d like to hear about your  _ actual _ little brother? Hear about what I’ve been up to?”

His family had always had a soft spot for Quentin. Even awkward and shy, that layer of depression and anxiety covering him like a second skin he could never seem to shed, he was  _ still _ more normal than Eliot could ever hope to be. To them, anyway. Quentin had been the first person to make him think there wasn’t anything wrong with him. Except around his family, but he at least stood by him despite the affectation they fawned on him. It had been such a relief when they collectively started hating the both of them once they got married after high school. But that was a long time ago.

“You mean since you lit tail and never looked back?” Eliot got out of his head real quick and snapped his attention back to his brother, sitting there the epitome of Midwestern masculinity and spouting a strange amount of shade for the self-proclaimed zen master. 

“Someone got catty.”

Dan just shrugged. “Guess it’s catching,” he tilted his head back to glance a side-eye at his little brother and suddenly Eliot could see the family resemblance very vividly. Fuck, he really was Eliot’s favorite. “Well, how’ve you been? What’s new? Not that I’d know, anything in the past seven years would be considered  _ new _ to me-”

“Alright, that’s enough out of you,” Eliot chastised in a bored lull, swallowing past the lump crawling up his throat at the familiar black and red wire gates of his family's acres of corn fields. They were only a minute or two from the turn to the farm house now, but they’d been passing by Waugh rust-red fencing almost the entire drive. They had a  _ lot _ of acres of corn. He felt a numbness spreading through his limbs, and a distance in his eyes as he looked out in the darkness around them. He didn’t think he was ready for the farmhouse, and Daniel was still watching him - waiting for his answer to his question he’d demanded from him. “I met someone,” Eliot prompted, words lost of all their hostility or indignation. He could barely keep the airy indifference aloft in between each syllable. “And he’s… really a good catch, as you’d say. Fishing metaphors aside. He’s actually a decent human being. Probably a better guy than I deserve, but he loves me. And I’m happy. Really.” He tried to smile, to think of Sebastian and his penthouse near Central Park, his smile over champagne and a candle lit dinner table, someone who was always happy to see him and how that would always affect him. That someone was happy by his mere presence. He didn’t have to do anything. Only one other person in his life had ever made him feel that way, and to find that again should have helped erase the sickening terror threaded through his veins. 

Yet, Eliot still felt like he was going to throw up as Daniel turned onto the gravel road. He didn’t speak another word, despite his hate of silence, and Eliot could feel his eyes burning holes in the side of his face the rest of the drive. 

-

They drove past the farmhouse. 

It was a giant, two story, freshly painted white  _ Home Living Magazine _ effigy with pillars and crystal clear windows and a wrap-around porch that really went all the way around the house. It looked really nice, even in the dark, far nicer than it was when Eliot was growing up in it - and he had only just started pondering how the expanse of time can make nostalgic places seem more beautiful when they kept on driving along the winding gravel road.

“Where are we going?” he dared to ask, looking back at the dark house sitting vigil like a tomb in the still summer night. “Why does the house look all spruced up?” Fuck, did he just say ‘spruced’? He shook his head and scowled, correcting his accent and mental vocabulary in an instant. Mentally slapping himself across the face for the slip. “Martha Stewart would actually claim it as a summer home, if it was in Georgia or somewhere else more charming.” 

“If only,” Dan laughed in a huff, “we’ve been renting it out to help keep the taxes paid on the off season. Mostly rich debutantes or folks from the city looking for a get-away, especially around Christmas.” 

“They’d drive this far?” Eliot asked, astonishment in his voice having nothing to do with the clientele Daniel mentioned. His mom was renting out the farmhouse? How bad off were they for money? 

“Cindy took good pictures, she’s got a business going now. Mostly engagement photos and senior pictures, but she’s very good at it,” Dan added conversationally. Cindy was Alex’s wife, the second oldest son in the Waugh family. Eliot was suddenly reminded that he hadn’t actually met his nieces and nephews, ever; he knew there were two or three of them. 

They rounded the barn, and kept going past the second and the grain silo, and Eliot forced himself to ask the question that was now ringing through his brain like an air raid siren.

“How bad is it?” he tried to keep his voice neutral, but by the set of Dan’s mouth it meant something that he even asked.

“We get by.” 

He turned sharply and put the car in park before Eliot could register the double-wide set up on a home-made wooden porch in front of him. There was a decent generator and water heater hooked up on the side, and the porch was actually very sweet with rugs and patio furniture - whoever had been decorating at the farmhouse had carried it over here - but it was still a double-wide trailer and Eliot clenched his jaw to keep it from dropping open. 

“It’s actually really nice inside, they do some cool shit now-a-days with trailers,” Dan said, voice dropping off the moment he looked over at Eliot’s wide eyes and clenched teeth. “C’mon, you even have your own room.” The door burst open and a tiny figure came bustling out, causing Dan to turn off the engine and elbow Eliot in the process. “Wipe that look off your face, before she sees. She already stopped inviting friends over, and it’s really not that bad. Nicer than a lot of apartments around here.” Eliot blinked harshly and shook himself, shooting a look of understanding Dan’s way. He unfolded himself from the truck cab, only closing his eyes for a moment in a silent eulogy before he stepped onto the Waugh-family land he swore to himself he was never going to return to. There was no turning back now.

Genevieve ‘Ginny’ Waugh waved her hands at him like he could miss her somehow, she was the only other person within a three mile radius besides his brother and somehow Eliot only had eyes for her in the sparse light. His mother had aged a bit in seven years, a different face than he held in his memories, but there was something new and dew-like to her skin all the same. A spark in her eyes, an easiness in her smile,  _ excitement _ in her expression that actually matched her voice - and that was something Eliot had also not experienced growing up. She’d always been so subdued, quiet, observing and careful, and it was only now that Eliot bothered to think that maybe she hadn’t been cold on purpose. Maybe she’d been trying to survive like the rest of them.

Because she looked so  _ happy _ to see him. He hadn’t been expecting that.

“Oh  _ Eliot _ ! I can’t believe you’re here!” She was hurrying down the short stairs in the porch lights, wrapped in a terry cloth robe with her greying hair pulled up in a loose bun and laughter lines apparent around her wide smile. He couldn’t even remember her laughing, not like she was as she came up to him in the cross of yellowed porch lights and truck headlights. 

“Hey mom,” he said, biting back ‘mother’ like his ingrained personality wanted to clip so precisely. He was already an inverted picture of who had left the Waugh farm years ago, tall and lofty and coiffed within an inch of his life. Yes, even after half a night in jail. Although his tie was a bit loose and his vest had some creases he was quietly trying to smooth out with one hand while the other held onto his cigarette jacket over his shoulder. He was not dressed for the farm. He hadn’t been dressed for Quentin’s carpentry yard or whatever he was doing, either, but that also hadn’t stopped him in the slightest. He wasn’t going to change one inch of his appearance or sense of self just because he was back in Indiana. They weren’t going to take one spec of his new life away from him.

“Dear God, look how thin you’ve gotten!” his mother exclaimed, once Eliot was more in the crosshairs of the light like the spotlight in center stage. He resisted the urge to do a spin, because - yes, he had lost a bit of weight. Thanks for noticing, mother. Instead he smiled slightly and tilted his head in acknowledgement like the statement hadn’t been an exclamation. “And those clothes, they look like they cost more than your first car.”

“Hmm,” Eliot hummed a subdued laugh. “If I hadn’t made them myself, that would probably be accurate.” The cadence in which he spoke, the animated tilts and turns smooth as whiskey to his movements,  _ all of it _ was so different to who his mother probably recognized as her son that Eliot was preening and he wasn’t ashamed to say so. The slow blink as his mother took that in, the confidence in which he held himself - comfortable in his own skin - was worth the whole damn trip. There was a touch of awe in her expression, a recognition and… dare he say, admiration? Appreciation? Any other synonyms of knowing Eliot had done exactly what he’d set out to do and being - God, was she proud of him? Or was it just dark out here?

“C’mon, let’s get inside before mosquitoes eat us alive,” Daniel said, ushering them both in, but not before his mother attached herself to Eliot’s side in a quick embrace that he didn’t even get to return. Then she took him by his free hand and led him into the house. 

“Is that how they all talk in New York? I thought everyone sounded like Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver.”

“That’s a Brooklyn accent, mom, and a bad one,” Eliot pointed out, ducking through the low doorway and surveying the living space carefully. It did look a bit like the inside of an apartment, without the addition of a nice cityscape view or a lullaby of police sirens. 

“What would you call yours, then?” Daniel asked cheekily, also having to duck through the doorway. Ginny Waugh was barely 5’5’, and all her children had surpassed her height before puberty. She probably hadn’t even noticed the door size when she bought the place. 

Eliot just leveled his brother a look as he slung his jacket off his shoulder and took his suitcase from Dan’s outstretched hands. “Society.”

They pulled faces at each other like they were 10 and 4 all over again, until their mom turned on every light in the kitchen and let it wash over the tiny open floor plan and spill into the living room. It was certainly well-lived in, bits and pieces Eliot remembered vividly being spread out over 2500 square feet instead of 1300. It was dumb how something as menial as a lamp or a pillow sham could hold terrible memories for him, but he let his gaze sweep over everything and then back on his expectant mother. He couldn’t even bring himself to fake a smile. 

“Can I get you anything? Something to drink, or eat? We had spaghetti pie tonight, I remember that was always one of your favorites. What luck, right?” she was doing her babbling thing and Eliot puffed out his cheeks in a sigh - because this pod person was not who he recalled as being his birth-giver for the majority of his life. No matter how much baked cheese and pasta noodles sounded like pure heaven, the endurance of conversation it would entail would be something he didn’t think he could handle. Not without more liquor than could fit in his flask, which was swishing very sadly in his breast pocket and practically crying for a refill. 

“Sadly, I’m very tired after my horrendous ordeal and I think I’ll just settle with a nightcap,” he said, pulling out the flask that was being very demanding and holding it up for her to see. “It was a long day.” He was silently praying the ‘guest’ bedroom, or whatever room he’d be occupying, was composed of furniture from one of his brothers’ rooms - or his own, but he had never been a believer in miracles. At least he might be able to sleep in the trailer. The farmhouse would have been a giant gamble on his part, and Eliot might not have faith in miracles but he also wouldn’t past his old man to be haunting those hallways just to fuck with him for the rest of his afterlife. Ghosts over miracles. 

He turned from grabbing his things to find his mother right behind him, looking up into his face and he had to visibly bite back a shout. That woman needed a damn bell, how had he forgotten she basically floated as she walked? None of the boys could ever hear her footsteps, she’d have to legit step on their foot to even alert her presence. “You do look tired, sweetheart,” his mom said, something there behind her expression that was very close to tipping to pettiness. That was  _ way _ more familiar than the smiles or laughter. “I thought you just had bags under your eyes, but I think you have some smudged eyeliner as well,” she pointed out, reaching up like she was going to help clean him up and Eliot could not stop the flinch that rocked him backwards. 

But he recovered quickly, recentering his stance and controlling his expression as well as his mother was. “I showed a full collection at New York Fashion Week 36 hours ago, and I didn’t sleep for about a week before that. Tired doesn’t even begin to cover it.” 

“And you flew straight here?!” his mother said in elation, like he always flew home to celebrate such milestones. She didn’t even exclaim at his mention of Fashion Week. All he could do was blink and look away, forcing himself to exhale the breath caught in his chest. Disappointment really didn’t sting so much anymore when he had no expectations of his family whatsoever. So that was a nice development. 

“First thing this morning,” he said thinly and air light, all teeth and side-stepping out of his mom’s space to snatch his work satchel from where Dan had tossed it on the couch. 

“And you’re only just now getting here?” his mom said more to herself than to Eliot, but he could hear the dots connecting like gears clicking into place one by one. “I’m guessing you saw Quentin first?” He might have imagined it, but he thought he heard her mutter ‘why else would you be here’ and it made him stop in his tracks and turn around to look at her. “I see your priorities are still the same. Quentin, jail, then home.” 

Oh.

Okay, so that’s how this was going. Fine. 

Eliot had been prepping for this for seven years.

He set down his bags and raised his arms in a ‘come at me’ gesture that he had not ever planned on pointing his mother’s direction. But she was the one throwing accusations; not his father, or Alex, or Nate. No one he’d been ready to throw down with. His mom was the least confrontational person he’d ever known besides Daniel, but apparently someone had to fill in the spaces left behind by his psycho dad. He took up a lot of space in their lives, ruled them all like a homicidal cult leader, ran them into the ground every day of their lives - and Eliot got a lot of the brunt of it. But he was tired of brushing shit off, or being the bigger person and walking away, or being  _ sacred _ and cowering at the slightest implication he was in the wrong. Fearful for what that meant for him. Now, he did not give a single fuck. This time he was ready to say what was long overdue.

Especially at the nerve that  _ anyone _ would think he’d come  _ here _ , first. Even Quentin had expected him to. What was so hard to understand, here?

“Can you blame me?” he knew he looked angry, fed up, and long suffered. It was really a feat that he was able to keep himself so composed without falling apart to everything pent up for years and years. “It would have just been Quentin’s if he hadn’t decided being fucking arrested was a good way to teach me a lesson for daring to come back and finally take care of our unfinished business. OURS. As in Quentin’s, and mine.”

“You weren’t even going to come home?” his mom had the audacity to look sad about it, but Eliot could see a reflection of himself in her face. Her anger bleeding in with the embarrassment staining her frail cheeks. 

“This isn’t my home, mom! The closest thing I had to a home is on the other side of the river rotting under seven years worth of fallen leaves because Q couldn’t even take care of that-”

“Then what about me? Or your brothers? This might have not been a good home, but we’ve been trying to make it one ever since your father died,” his mom shouted right back. Eliot hadn’t known he’d raised his voice at all. He never raised his voice back in New York except to be heard over traffic and club music. “We’ve been moving on, following  _ your _ example - I might add, and you would recognize that if you bothered to be here at all after the funeral. Or bothered to  _ call _ .”

“Street runs both ways,” Eliot said with another flail of his hands. “A voicemail, I got one voicemail. I wasn’t going to come to the funeral, you all knew that, but don’t pretend you’ve been thinking about me or worrying about me a single day after that because I didn’t hear a word from anyone until I called you on that  _ stupid _ payphone. This is not just me, mom. You didn’t want to hear from me.”

“We were giving you  _ space _ ,” his mom exclaimed. “A chance, to get out.”

“I did that! Done, exceeded all expectations - dream journal levels of success. I have friends, a flourishing business, a killer apartment and a promising future, people actually want to  _ be me _ . I’m on the cover of magazines! I just got a text 2 hours ago that I sold  _ every dress _ I showed yesterday. I have-” his words stuttered as his breath heaved in his chest, thoughts tumbling one after the other and spilling all over the ground. He had money. He could buy a brand new Mercedes in cash, today. He’d graduated top of his class at Parsons, spent a year and half in  _ Paris _ studying haute couture, he’d had dresses on celebrities at every major red carpet the past two years. He had the best mentor in the world, turned to the best BEST friend he did not deserve. He had the most amazing boyfriend - no, fiancè. He had a fucking fiancè, and his mother was still looking at him like he was just playing dress up and reality was going to come crashing down around him at any moment. “What do you  _ want _ from me? I got out and made something of myself! And you can’t even be  _ happy _ for me, you can’t even fake it?!”

“I just want you to make yourself happy, baby,” his mom said, back to that sad pitying tone Eliot loathed more than anything in the world.

“I have,” he insisted, no longer yelling and deflated - finally feeling the bone-tiredness that should have crippled him. “I am happy.”

It was incredible how a single blink from his mom, a tick of her head to the side, could change her whole stance and make Eliot feel five years old again. “You don’t look it, sweetheart.” 

God, the long drawn lines of his face felt like they were filled with concrete and dragging his skin down to his jaw. His whole face hurt. He knew he didn’t look happy, he had to look as miserable as he felt. But he knew one thing that could lift that burden, at least a little. Looking for his bag behind him, Eliot turned in a daze and fished out the Tiffany’s ring and slipped it on without hesitation. The intricate metal band, bespeckled in enough diamonds to actually buy their farm was at least a small semblance of comfort. A single link to his life waiting for him hundreds of miles away. With another careful spin, he showed his mom his hand.

“I’m getting married again,” his voice was raspy and low, rumbling but clear in the quiet living room. Daniel actually looked up from where he’d been hanging back, letting them hash everything out. The surprise on his face was a good contrast to the look on his mom’s, who was also surprised but in a more subdued way. “That’s why I’m here. In Indiana. I wasn’t here to see you. I didn’t want to tell you this in the same trip I had to come and force Quentin to sign our divorce papers.” 

“You two are still married?” Daniel asked incredulously, as his mom came up and took his hand to look at the ring more closely, silent from shock. This time he didn’t flinch from her. She hadn’t really deserved the first one. 

“Legally, but since we started the process we’ve been labeled ‘separated’ for the past seven years,” Eliot droned out. “He kept sending the papers back.” The way his mom slowly rubbed his thumb with her own, without looking up at him, was actually more comforting than any words she probably could have come up with. There was no hiding the hurt in his voice when he had spoken those words.

“So, who is this guy?” Dan asked, also looking at the ring that his mom had legit put under the lamplight while still attached to Eliot’s hand.

“Someone who loves me for me,” Eliot said lamely, quietly, and at his mom’s penetrating stare he elaborated. “And I love him.” 

For the first time since he’d walked through that door, she looked like she believed him. With a nod, and a pat to his hand, she left the two brothers in the small living room and went to turn off the kitchen lights one by one. 

“She’s been through a lot,” Daniel said, as if their mother needed excuses made for her. “She’s a lot more complex than any of us gave her credit for.” Eliot’s mouth was set in a grim line, and it hurt to heave the sigh that moved his whole chest. So instead of inspecting any of that, or anything that had just happened further, he fished his flask out of his pocket and drained almost all of it in one go. He left one shot in the leather container and then handed it to his brother to finish off.

“I’m going to bed,” he hoped those four words and the look in his eyes would be enough to settle any lingering sentiments. Dan just nodded in agreement then gestured down the hall to their right. 

“Second door on the left,” he told him, sucking at his teeth after he took the final swig from the flask. “G’night, El.” The tone was tired in an exasperated way, but also warm. The only person Eliot could never seem to get to hate him.

It really only made Eliot feel worse. Reminding him in all the most terrible ways why he’d never wanted to return to Indiana in the first place. This place brought out the worst in him. In all of them. 

He collapsed into the twin bed in a dark 10x10 room, not even a little drunk, and prayed for daylight. 

\--


	6. v. In Town

-

On a pleasant New York City summer morning, not two days after Sebastian and Eliot became engaged, Martin Chatwin invited his siblings to their traditional Sunday brunch. Downtown, this time, instead of at the Gracie Mansion he’d taken residence in since becoming mayor. The sun was shining, Central Park was a green wonderland out the crystal clear penthouse windows, and Martin had managed a solid two minutes of small talk before he switched gears so fast it gave whiplash. 

Sebastian would have choked on his tea if he hadn’t been expecting it since he’d walked in the door. 

“You honestly know nothing about him, Rupert. Do you even know who he really is?” Martin said in a tone that bordered on scandalized, as if he hadn’t known Eliot about as long as Sebastian had. He’d been Sebastian’s date to his ‘Welcome Home’ party. Sebastian had introduced Eliot before he’d even hugged his brother, after being virtually gone for _ years _ . 

Eliot had been so nervous that night, in such a high end venue for the first time outside of work, but he hadn’t let it show for a single moment once they passed through the country club doors. Neither of which the other man disclosed to his boyfriend, but Sebastian could tell. Every aspect of Eliot was always endearing and charming, even the gossamer fronts he put up within the garden walls of New York Society. Sebastian loved every facet of him. The most precious, sparkling jewel since his world had seemed forever dimmed. He knew he didn’t know every aspect of Eliot’s past, but he didn’t care. 

“I love him, Marty,” Sebastian said without looking up from his tea cup. The small quirk of a smile gracing his face the easiest thing to hold. If his brother bristled at how he’d turned his pointed jabs to endearing memories Sebastian didn’t see it. 

“That’s sweet,” Martin drawled, chastising his older brother as if he actually held some kind of power over him. “But you cannot afford to be that naive. We are a different breed of society. We aren’t better or worse, we are just different.” Sebastian still didn’t look up to indulge his brother’s soapbox, but he did cast a glance to Eliza across the table from him. She very pointedly had her own teacup hovering around her red lips, doing a horrible job at hiding a smirk. “We are in the limelight, you could say, and under a microscope that reports to Page Six of the  _ Times _ . And no amount of well wishing is going to change that. You have to understand that, Rupert!” At his indignation, bleeding through the words the more he ventured into his prepared speech, Martin could tell his sibling wasn’t taking him seriously.

“I would say we’re a  _ little _ worse,” Eliza finally mumbled around the rim of her tea cup, sipping delicately and daring to glance Martin’s way. 

“We are ALSO a part of the public service sector and should be setting GOOD EXAMPLES. Jane.” 

Eliza just smiled, all teeth, unapologetic.

“You really do have to control everything, don’t you?” Sebastian sighed, cutting into his food and talking as if to only himself. But he did shoot Eliza another look over the brunch spread. “Could it be a compulsion? Should we call the sanitarium?”

“What would grandmama think?” Eliza stage-whispered dramatically, the spark in her eye showing she was only a split second away from falling into a fit of giggles. 

“She would think ‘thank heavens the responsible grandchild is in charge’, and I would get an extra sweet at dinner,” Martin interjected, not engaging in their child play or reacting to how they snickered behind their hands like schoolchildren. “Speaking of, tell Eliot I reserved the Plaza for the second weekend in June. That should give you a wonderfully long engagement,” he went on in a flippant tone. Pretending  _ in case you change your mind _ wasn’t going unsaid in the loudest voice in the room.

“Actually, we were thinking Christmas in England,” Sebastian said, mirroring his brother’s tone and finally glancing his way - still sporting a smirk. He gleefully took in the way Martin’s brain was visibly calculating how little time that left to ruin anything. Because Sebastian could see that was what he was trying to do. God knows why. “A long engagement isn’t necessary.”

“Apparently neither is a long courtship,” Martin muttered darkly, the slightest hints of a scowl gracing his face and showing his hand more than he’d planned to his siblings. Who were both openly staring at him. “I’m not going to let some-” Sebastian’s stare intensified into a telling look that reigned Martin in, before he said something he couldn’t take back “-guy you  _ barely know _ talk you into getting married before you’ve had a proper time to sit and think it through!”

“He’s not some  _ guy _ , Martin, he’s my fiancè.” Sebastian could feel the incredulous expression bleeding away to something edging into anger. Martin was his  _ little brother _ , not his father. “For fuck’s sake, I proposed to him! He almost said no! Kept asking if I was sure-”

“Well, then at least he has one more brain cell than you,” Martin said snidely. Throwing down his napkin and bracing his hands on the table like  _ he  _ was the one about to get up and storm out. Sebastian was already shifting towards the edge of his seat to do so himself, he didn’t have to sit here and take this. “And he still said  _ yes _ , therefore I still don’t trust him.”

“ _ Why _ ? Because he wants to marry me?” Sebastian accused, glaring.

“Because he doesn’t  _ see you _ ,” Martin exclaimed. “You haven’t changed one bit, Rupert. I know you can be a leader, steadfast, smart as a tack, but you are still a child at heart. Especially when it comes to love.” Sebastian knew his mouth was parted and hanging open, gaping like a fish, because who the  _ hell _ was Martin to think he knew a damn thing about  _ love _ .

“Martin, don’t-” Eliza warned, her teacup clattering to it’s saucer and that was as loud a statement as if she had slammed her hand on the table. But Martin barreled on, regardless. Changed his tone to this irritating, sympathetic thing that grated at Sebastian painfully. Martin had no right to bring this up.

“When you lost Lance I know how hard it was-”

“For God’s sake, he’s not  _ dead _ Martin!”

“-but you didn’t give yourself time to adapt - to heal - and instead threw yourself in headfirst to that trip.  _ Soul searching _ . Where you gallivanted across the European countryside like a damn hippie. And,  _ and then _ fell for the first man you tripped over that crossed your path.” It was clear Martin had been thinking about this a lot, for a very long time; possibly as long as Eliot and Sebastian had been dating. Keeping every jab and barb tucked up inside where he knew it didn’t need to be said, because this fling wasn’t going to  _ last _ . Eliot wasn’t going to still be around - except, now he was. 

“You say that like it was a week later, I was there for eight  _ years _ Martin!” Sebastian was shouting now, repeating his brother’s name like he could somehow get through to him if he kept calling.

“And a lot of good it did you,” Martin snapped back, not raising to the bait. “Here you are, 10 years out of University, still throwing yourself haphazardly into whichever way you think your heart tells you to go - without using your  _ head _ . You are smarter than this, Rupert. Start acting like it.”

Now he did sound quite a bit like father, even looked it with that steadfast glare that said he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was  _ right _ \- and no amount of argument or reason was going to change that. So Sebastian did the one thing he couldn’t have done when his father was alive. 

“Go to hell, Martin.” He stood up, dropped his utensils he’d been grasping so tight there were red indents in his palms, and stormed out of the dining room without looking back. 

-

On that same sunny morning, 700 miles away, Eliot finally looked at the handout given to him from the Rush County Sheriff’s office about how to unpound his rental car. This required either a cash payment, check, or a money order wired directly to the county - which was sketchy as fuck and Eliot’s eye twitched as he read it. There was a footnote that even said ‘We do not take any debit or credit cards at this time.’ 

Who. The. Hell. Doesn’t. Take. Credit. Cards?

Also, who the fuck carries checks anymore? Eliot didn’t even know where his checkbook was back in New York, every time he needed something along those lines he just used his bank app on his phone. But since he was in the literal birthplace of the boonies, smartphones had only just broken through to the local businesses and that route was a no go. 

He would have to go  _ into _ town, in order to get what he needed. God damn it.

Neither his mother or older brother could take him to the bank to get said money order.  _ Farmlife never sleeps _ , gag him. He would either have to wait even longer for a ride, which flirted dangerously with someone asking him to  _ help _ around the farm - he couldn’t be clearer in his stance when he said  _ fuck that _ \- or he would have to drive himself into town. In Daniel’s ancient white Ford pickup truck that he’d had since high school. Eliot hadn’t driven a stick-shift in his entire time outside of Indiana, save for one drunken night with a very expensive Mercedes and Margo screaming in elation out the passenger window. He couldn’t even remember how long ago that had been, but he could faintly recall wearing a very nice tux and swerving all along the winding seaside highways of California. That’s right, he got around. 

It wasn’t a long drive into town, and Eliot spent the majority of the time trying to fall back into the rhythm of shifting gears without killing the engine as he wove through the backroads and into the small town thoroughfare of Carthage. It was only a few blocks long, barely a quarter of the size of Knightstown and its picture perfect country-side attraction aesthetic. Once he got the hang of the trunk, trying to not spend one moment appreciating how he was actually sitting in a vehicle that fit him (all of the Waugh boys were well over six feet tall), and instead fiddled with his phone and the bluetooth headset that did not want to cooperate this far from a cell tower. 

His bank was indefinitely on hold on one line, and Eliot was taking out a lot of aggression on his divorce lawyer on the other. He refused to feel bad about that. The man had been bleeding him dry for seven years, and no amount of ‘apologies’ or simpering suggestions was going to change that. Especially since he hadn’t heard the words  _ contested divorce _ come out of his mouth in that ENTIRE TIME. The hind part of his brain that rode through life on muscle memory and childhood instincts took over driving the car and he proceeded to yell like the stereotypical New Yorker he’d always strived to be. 

“It’s going to take HOW LONG?!” he shouted when he demanded the man tell him everything about a contested divorce. 

_ “You should have mentioned it before,”  _ the infuriating rat of a man said as pleasantly as he could through the speaker in his ear.  _ “We could have taken care of this years ago.” _

“I thought I had years! And I thought that was what I hired you for? To tell me this shit?” Eliot spit out, breathing fire on every exhale. “Hold on, I forgot how to part this stupid thing.” It was like trying to land a 747, and there were really no parking space lines to follow on Main Street so he had to just  _ guess _ where he could fit. With a long heaved sigh, Eliot pulled down to the end of the street (a whole five buildings down that Margo could have fit her yacht inside of) and parked on the outskirts. Because he did  _ not _ want to also have to call his insurance company due to his shitty depth perception, just in case he ended up dinging someone’s ‘96 Honda Civic. He had to worry the whole drive about taking out someone’s mailbox with a headlight around each curve in the road. 

He unfolded himself from the cab of the truck, inhaled dust and heat and the smell of fresh tar, and immediately wished he could close his eyes, tap his shoes together, and appear in Manhattan like magic. Where the heat and tar and dust would be justified, and not have a faint trace of corn or wheat in it. Resisting the urge to gag, he resumed his tyrad at his lawyer and strided along the crumbling sidewalk towards the bank entrance. He knew he stuck out like a sore thumb, and if he could make it through this day without being noticed then maybe he’d be able to make it out of Indiana with his dignity somewhat intact. 

It wasn’t just the 6’4” towering vantage points that would make people look twice, but Eliot had also not  _ planned _ on dressing for Indiana in Summer. He and Margo were supposed to be going to Upstate New York the following afternoon, and Eliot had packed to confront his ex-husband, hop a plane home, and then show up on Margo’s doorstep with a bottle of Chardonnay and a sincere apology for missing brunch. All he had were fetching summer outfits that wouldn’t look out of place in New England. But in the Midwest even his teal jeans, black and red striped polo, suspenders and dark linen jacket would call all sorts of unwanted attention. This was the most  _ ordinary _ outfit he had, everything else was vests and button downs and seersucker ensembles for sailing. So he had to keep his Ray Bands on and his head ducked down and walk as fast as his long legs could carry him as he argued with his lawyer all the way up the street. Praying no one called out his name.

A sharp whistle echoed off the buildings from somewhere in the middle of the street, reminiscent of a cat call - but Eliot was a New Yorker now, and nothing short of a bus physically hitting him would make him turn towards a disturbance in his trek. Besides, he was in  _ Indiana _ . A cat all was probably not mean for him, if that’s what it was at all. 

“18 months?” he shouted at his ear piece. “I don’t have 18 months! I don’t have 18  _ days _ !” He could picture his lawyer at his little mahogany desk uptown wincing and turning his face away from the speaker phone as if that would help block out Eliot’s rage. 

“ _ Whew _ we don’t see anything like you around here, where you going sweetheart - you need a lift?” That… was a woman’s voice, and Eliot was not engaging. Not on their life, or his life - fuck them whoever they were. The entrance for the bank was three buildings up and he was fucking  _ busy _ . 

“Look I just don’t have that kind of time,” Eliot continued, lowering his voice a little bit to try and deter his admirer. “I need something I can get moving in the next few days. Promptly, legally - but I’m wishy-washy on that end.”

_ “I’m sorry Mr. Waugh, but there’s really no other options at this time-” _

“Then  _ make _ time, for fuckssakes, this is what I pay you for Mr. Pi-”

“If I’d known there’d be a  _ tall _ glass of water strutting up and down these streets I would have put on my best,  _ man-catching _ dress-”

That was IT. Eliot whipped around and yanked his bluetooth out of his ear, hanging up on his lawyer without so much as a ‘call you back’ to glare at the little four door sedan that had been following his every step the past half block.

“LISTEN,  _ SWEETHEART _ , I AM A LITTLE BUSY HERE SO UNLESS YOU HAVE A DICK OR A LEGAL DEGREE YOU CAN FUCK OFF AND KISS MY-” 

Alice Quinn was biting her lip so hard it had to be leaving a mark, trying to contain the smile that threatened to split her face in two. Because finally, fucking  _ finally _ , she’d pulled one over on her high school best friend - and left Eliot Waugh stunned in the middle of Main Street. She was half leaning out her car window, utterly beside herself at her accomplishment, and even dared to raise an eyebrow like she expected Eliot to finish his tirade. 

“Fucking  _ shit _ , Alice?!” Fine, he could admit she got him. Usually he was the one that surprised her, the other woman always having her nose in a book or gazing at another girl’s curves across the quad to ever notice Eliot sneaking up on her. The student had become the teacher.

She even went as far as to scrunch her nose at Eliot’s exclamation and pretended she was still trying not to smile.

“Well, I’m not into that - but for you I guess I’ll try anything once.” With an amazing amount of grace and poise she slid out of her car and fluttered her short A-line skirts as Eliot darted into the road and swept her into the biggest of hugs. 

“Don’t be gross, I missed you too much,” he admonished as he literally held her up off her feet, and couldn’t bring himself to let go for a good long minute. 

“Then don’t be gone so long,” Alice scolded right back, not complaining at being picked up off the ground and held on to like a child with a teddy bear. 

But her pointed heels were hitting Eliot’s knees so he put her down and took her hand instead, lifting it up and spinning her on her adorable vintage secretary stilettos, and admired the rest of her retro outfit. A black short sleeved top with a white 1950’s collar, her blonde hair straightened within an inch of its life, and the only color in her entire outfit being the burgundy thick framed glasses. If this was her everyday style, Eliot very much approved; much improvement from what they messed around with in high school. 

“Very cute, very you,” he said in appreciation, spots of color rising to Alice’s cheeks as she refused to acknowledge the compliment and the callibure she knew to be behind it. “But also very  _ I’d do anything to turn that A into an A+, Professor. _ ”

“Oh no, that was you if I’m not mistaken,” Alice quipped back, just as quick - still smart as a tack but insanely outspoken and Eliot could feel himself beaming on the inside at his best friend. Personal growth always deserved attention and appreciation. “ _ Isn’t there anything else I could do to make up for my Physical. Education. Final. Coach? _ ” 

“Shut up, I aced P.E. with my eyes closed. Henson wishes he had anything to do with this.” 

“He probably would miss that farm boy physique that had the girls climbing the chain link fences,” Alice dared to tease, making her the third person to point out how much muscle mass he’d lost in the past seven years. Thankfully Eliot had a  _ very _ healthy self image and a barbed tongue to match.

“He wouldn’t be the only one,” Eliot added back with a raised eyebrow. Alice just sighed wistfully.

“Yeah, I do miss you as my wingman. Your milkshakes brought all the girls to the yard,” she said with half a pout and looking off into the distance dramatically.

God, how much had they rubbed off on each other during High School that they just -  _ clicked _ and acted like no time had passed when Eliot had lived an entire  _ lifetime _ away from her. Margo was wonderful, but Alice just understood him from every angle. Just as he did her, and he caught when her eyes sharpened as they focused on some people down the street that had spotted them gabbing like old ladies in the middle of Main Street. 

“Well shit, looks like my cover is blown,” he grumbled, shifting his weight to one hip and slinging his jacket over his shoulder. The suspenders made his chest look wider when paired with the stripes anyway, maybe people would stop mentioning how much weight he’d lost if he distracted them with clothing containing colors and patterns. “I was hoping to slip through this without alerting all of Central Indiana that I was here.” So conversational, so absent-minded, Eliot didn’t realize the implication until Alice was leveling a glare his direction and he had to quickly correct himself. “But I was going to come and see you, of course. I… didn’t quite expect you to  _ be _ here, though.” Alice had also been one of the group that planned on high-tailing it out of bum-fuck-nowhere and never looking back. To see her in a busted up Sedan and chic thrift store finds years later was in it’s own way worrying and depressing, and Eliot had to wonder what happened. If anyone was determined and skilled enough to leave a small town like Carthage in the dust it was Alice Quinn. But Alice just tried to hide the extent of the unmentioned in a long sigh, nowhere near as playful as the last one. “Long story, I’m assuming.” 

“You can’t even imagine,” she managed to mumble, pulling at the hem of her shirt just like she always had since kindergarten, and just as miserable. 

“Brown didn’t go well?” Eliot mentioned before he could take it back, trying to fall back into some kind of rhythm from the old days - where they were able to bring their troubles to each other and make themselves feel better about it in the process. Instead of burdened and heavy as the air that surrounded them, condensing with each passing second. When had he lost the ability to listen and  _ help _ ? 

“Not a sidewalk conversation, I’m afraid,” Alice said, kindly snuffing out Eliot’s failed attempt at being relatable. But he couldn’t just leave it like that. Alice’s shoulders had visibly taken on a weight that must have been insurmountable - and that was too alarming for Eliot to hold back. 

So he did something probably... incredibly stupid, but he just could’t help himself. No matter how much time passed, Alice meant the world to him.

“Well, I’m going to be in town another night. How about I buy you a drink, Ted's Place tonight, and you tell me all about it?” the words came out easy, simple and like they didn’t hold a whole laundry list of problems in correlation with it. A night of drinking at Ted’s Place? What could possibly go wrong?

Spoiler: literally anything and everything. 

“Really? You’re sticking around?” Alice asked, the hopefulness mirroring Quentin’s in a way that made Eliot feel sick to his stomach. He had to nip that in the bud, but not as harshly as he had to the other man - see, he was learning.

“Ugh, God I hope not,” he said just as dramatically as if it was sophomore Intro to Theater and they were pretending to audition for Glee inbetween bells. “I hope not, anyway - I’m just hitting the bank right now then I have some other things to clear up.” Alice raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow at him that asked all the questions at once. “Yes, it’s what you think it is. Yes, I’ll tell you later.  _ No _ , I won’t leave out the good stuff. Blood-thirsty for gossip, as always.” Alice’s expression slipped to something carefully controlled and Eliot  _ felt _ the winds of change pushing at his back, as if she had conjured it just for dramatic flare.

“Oh - I just like to know everything there is to know, about everything in the world, the universe, all of it - since I’m such a  _ know-it-all _ ,” she threw the childhood memory at him like a frisbee, and Eliot full on groaned, lulling his head back to ask the heavens why this was being drug back up. “And I’ll have you know I take pride in that now-” Alice continued primly, with a straightface to boot.

“ _ God _ ,” Eliot bemoaned, dragging out the vowel. “We were in  _ first grade _ , you really are never going to let that go, are you?”

“It’s going on my tombstone.  **_Here lies Alice Quinn. ‘Know-it-all.’ quote Eliot Waugh, 1998_ ** .” 

“I hate you so much, see you tonight?” he quipped right back, finally cracking her demeanor as he kissed her on the cheek. Alice let out a giggle she wasn’t proud of, or how much she enjoyed being spun on the sidewalk just like the old days, or how Eliot opened her driver’s side car door for her as she slid behind the wheel. 

“8:30? Don’t be late.”

“I’m always late,” Eliot scoffed off-handedly, both of them knowing it was a lie. He’d probably be early as fuck. The eyeroll, the barely contained smile, Alice watching and waving at him in the sideview mirror - every bit of it was just what Eliot needed. They were adorable, damn it, and he’d missed Alice Quinn more than words could say.

So for once, Eliot was all smiles in his hometown and that was not what he had expected to get out of this trip. He was also very much looking forward to their date at the bar, which was insanely unexpected but he couldn’t even be bothered by it.

-

After Alice left, Eliot made his way into the bank entrance on the street corner. The aged brick building and brass framed glass doors would almost be chic if they hadn’t been coated in grime and fine grains of wheat. Beaten and baked by the sun, hay dust caked in the cracks, making the whole entrance smell like a barn with how it caught things from the wind. A design flaw, along with being built in Indiana, but the second set of doors that were more newly installed must have kept part of it separate from the outside world.

The bank wasn’t  _ really _ just the bank, it just served as one. The only one. In the whole damn town. The building also housed the post office hub, credit union, and the office’s for the farmer’s association. Carthage was like three streets long, the citizens condensed the essentials to make space for more fields and utility stores. Farming town. Eliot felt claustrophobic just walking inside and looking at the bulletin with the list of services and locations. Even if it was much more organized than he’d ever remembered. At least someone around here had cracked open a business textbook.

The local bank offices were at the end, on the left, where the wall joined into what used to be the town’s bank offices and vault. Eliot turned after double checking, like he could somehow get lost in the single hallway eerily reminiscent of his old high school, and almost walked right into Henry Fogg. The irony. The tall man in his impeccable suit apologized in a rush, stopped on a dime (making to move past the man he had bumped into) and did a double-take. Not one inch of his expression changed as he did so, but the action alone warranted a reaction from Eliot - nothing surprised Fogg. Not in all the years he’d known him.

“Eliot Waugh; in Carthage, Indiana.” He paused for dramatic effect, and was very subtly clenching his jaw in an effort to stay poised. Oh, how Eliot wished he could know the storm of thoughts churning in that freshly shaven bald head of his. Another person he hadn’t planned on interacting with, but would definitely be at the top of his list to see who he was  _ now _ in comparison to how they had known him seven years ago. Hell, ten or twelve years ago. It felt like a long overdue Christmas present. “A pleasure to see you.”

“Clearly,” Eliot remarked in a similar tone, confident in his haughty, society sounding accent that Fogg would have previously thought was just a mockery of himself. He was so glad now for the clothes in his suitcase, and for the outfit he’d picked out for today - because as ‘causal’ as it was for Country Club standard, it was still expensive and more on Fogg’s level. Eliot even stood a little taller (ha) in that airy, cavalier poise he coveted so greatly. “I see you created your monopoly on essential services, congratulations. How many towns have you spread to?”

“Twenty-three,” Fogg hid a smirk as he spoke, but Eliot didn't hide his. It merely accentuated the sparkle of surprise in his eyes. Even by Fogg’s standards, that was impressive. They’d call it a draw, like gentleman, and to Eliot that was a victory all it’s own.

“Have the bank’s operating hours begun?”

“7:00am, Monday through Friday,” Fogg answered with full dictation. 

“Lovely, nice to see you.” Eliot said dismissively, slinging his jacket over his shoulder again - but fuck if he couldn’t help himself. “Principal Fogg.” Oh, how he relished being able to hear the man grind his teeth in irritation. As much hell as the man had given him during his four years at the county high school, Eliot was also probably responsible for the reason he had no hair - or was one of the reasons. They had a mutual hatred that flirted the lines of respect, especially now. Even Fogg’s dead eyes couldn’t hide that. Eliot had turned himself around and ended up on top. Eat that. 

“No longer a principal anymore, I’m afraid,” Fogg said back, bordering on snappish. 

“Oh, but you’ll always be one to me,” Eliot smiled, placing a hand over his heart as if it meant anything close to sentimentality. Check, set, match. Eliot might actually end up smiling the whole day, at this rate.

“Good day, Mr. Waugh.” Fogg stormed out the doors and into the dust and summer heat. Eliot hoped it ruined his suit. 

At the end of the hall he took a  _ paper ticket number _ and sat in a plush leather chair in the newly added waiting area. At least Fogg had poshed the place up a bit. Eliot had been expecting the same yellow plastic chairs pushed against a wall that had been there since the 50’s. Easier to hose down if someone came in caked in mud and straw.

His number was called a few moments later and Eliot barely even looked up as he strided up to the counter. Pulling out his physical wallet (which he only had on him because he’d needed his ID at the airport and to drive his rental car) and tried to locate his two forms of identification, as well as any other card that might help. When he heard a very distinct, and rude, snort from the teller.

“Bail bonds are on the other side of the building.”

Eliot’s head whipped up in shock -  _ no one _ should know he got arrested the night before - and came face to face with a person he didn’t quite recognize right away. Staring back at him in expectation. And the longer Eliot stared in confusion, trying to put a name to the face, the darker the man’s expression got until his lips finally turned down in a scowl and - there it was.

“Penny?” It couldn’t fucking be. Not on his life. “Penny Adiyodi?”

Penny blinked and did his asshole over-the-top surprise thing that was somehow  _ still  _ deadpan. “Wow, you actually know my last name. Wonders never cease.”

“It starts with an A, you were literally the first person to do anything for every alphabetical thing we did in school, ever. Everyone knows your last name,” Eliot prattled off.

“Spell it.”

“Fuck off,” Eliot smirked, and Penny’s expression cracked just the tiniest bit. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a suit, not even for prom.” It was a weird mixture of styles: Calvin Klein jacket, Michael Kors shirt and tie, pocket square to match, all in subtly patterned grey but it matched his complexion nicely under the fluorescent lights. 

“That’s because prom is for  _ losers _ and I wasn’t there,” Penny scoffed, sounding 16 years old again.

“You were at the after party,” Eliot pointed out.

“Of course I was at the after party.” Okay, fair point. Everyone between the ages of 14 and 23 in the tri-county area was at that after party. “Fogg has everyone dressed to the nines here, he orders the clothes from Indianapolis and gets them tailored for us.” 

“That’s… kind of sweet, in a really creepy way,” Eliot stared hard.

“Tell me about it,” Penny said. There were a lot of stories behind those four words. Eliot couldn’t even imagine  _ working  _ for Fogg after having to endure his reign for four years in school.

“Honestly, you are the last person I expected to still be kicking around town,” Eliot found himself blurting out with no filter, leaning his tall frame on the counter like girls gossiping over an old fashioned soda fountain counter. “I thought you’d be on a bus out of here the second you could afford to.” He’d always talked about going back to Florida, or moving to Brooklyn, or California, or Denver, anywhere that had something more meaningful as a landmark than cornfields and a water tower. 

“Well, that only works if I didn’t lose every dime and asset I had when Pearl left me,” Penny told him, not even aware of how he was airing what anyone else would consider dirty laundry to the commonwealth of Carthage. It must have been a thing for a while. Wow, Eliot had never been the last to know anything. He took a moment to appreciate what that felt like.

“Pearl? Weren’t you and Kady a thing? When I heard you got married I just assumed-”

“You assumed wrong,” Penny snapped, dismissing Eliot’s line of questioning. “We split up but we’re cool. How else you think I know you got pinched last night?” Apparently pillow talk was an indefinite perk if you stayed ‘cool’ with your exs. Food for thought.

“That gossipy bitch,” Eliot deadpanned right back. “The whole town, all of you.” Seriously, who here  _ didn’t _ gossip about literally everything that happened?

“Says the kettle to the pot,” Penny taunted.

“She tell you anything else?” 

“Nothing I didn’t already learn from Instagram.” Penny procured his iphone out of thin air in such a manner it would have made even Quentin blink twice, and he hated Penny. Or Penny hated him. Whatever. And there, gleaming in a perfect 1:1 square, was a picture of his ring that someone had taken from the fund raiser at Lincoln Center. All blown up and sharpened to the point the contrast was glaring. Were his nails really that nicely filed? They looked good. “Congrats on finding someone just as extra as you. Did he really propose inside Tiffany’s?” Eliot just gave him a look. Points for being on the up and up in bum-fuck-nowhere. “Was it magical?” Negative points for being a dick.

“Shut up.”

“Did you cry?”

“Okay seriously, enough,” Eliot snapped but it was only to hide the laugh bubbling up his throat. “We’re going to hold up the line if we keep gabbing like old ladies.” 

“Fogg left for lunch, I really don’t give a fuck,” Penny admitted, again not caring he was in earshot of the other patrons, but he logged back into his computer anyway with a heavy sigh. Then, with the  _ fakest  _ of fake smiles, he turned to Eliot and asked “How may I help you today, sir?”

Eliot raised one eyebrow, to keep his eye from twitching. “They buy that here?”

“Every damn day.”

“I need a money order to get my rental out of impound,” Eliot said, fishing out his cards and wallet once more.

“Forget your checkbook in your New York penthouse?” Penny jabbed, not at all bitter about his assumption.

“I don’t use a checkbook. It’s not 1980.” Eliot shot back, and realized how much he missed banter like this. But not from before, from back home. From Marina and Margo and his other seamstress underlings. Penny would have fit right in, in New York. He huffed an unimpressed scoff that was so Brooklyn it hurt, and started typing away before Eliot could even hand him anything from his wallet.

“You want it taken from your joint account?” he asked Eliot, not even pausing as he continued working away. Even at Eliot’s sharp look up in confusion.

“My-”

“Joint account? You and Coldwater’s?” He didn’t turn his head, or change his expression, but he looked at him pointedly - an artful side-eye that said even though his tone sounded pleasant and innocent - he knew what he’d said. What he was implying. Penny had been through a divorce, Eliot didn’t have to know the details to know it was probably nasty and long-winded if the other man was now working in a bank in a town he despised for their former high school principal. If anyone hated Carthage, Indiana more than Eliot - it was Penny.

And if anyone was on his side in that moment, when it came to his situation with Quentin, it was becoming very obvious that the man in his corner was Penny. Who had been through this before, who knew how much it sucked, and how shitty it was that Q had been dragging it out for seven fucking years. Penny had never been Quentin’s biggest fan, but he was making it very clear here that he wasn’t cool with what Q had been doing to El in prolonging the process. “According to Kady last night, y’all are still married.” 

Eliot was staring so hard his vision started to spiral. But everything really was connecting into place very seamlessly, and a plan formed as it did. A very vicious, devious plan. It made Eliot’s lips curl and he felt he was giving a very cartoonish evil smirk. Insert smirking Grinch gif here. 

“Why yes, yes I believe we are,” he said wistfully, leaning back on the counter and letting the pieces fall into place in his mind. “By chance, how close is the nearest outlet mall now? And do they deliver this far out in the sticks?”

“I just got a new fridge from Nebraska Furniture Mart out in Whiteland, they got a Bass Pro and some other big lot stores that way,” Penny rattled off without paying too much attention. He couldn’t be guilty of conspiring if he didn’t look too far into what Eliot was plotting. He just liked stirring the pot. And fucking up Coldwater. 

“Perfect,” Eliot purred. “That is just what I need.”

“Won’t be cheap, though,” Penny pointed out.

“Oh, I have a feeling that won’t be a problem.” He sounded flippant, until Penny handed him a bank statement and withdrawal check to fill out. Eliot’s jaw near hit the counter top. “Holy shit.”

Penny just scoffed with a smirk and continued to type. “Yeah. Have fun shopping. How much you want?” They exchanged a single look, broke into laughter that made the other people in the waiting area stare, and continued with Eliot’s evil plot. 

Quentin was going to wish he’d never tested Eliot Waugh. 

\--


	7. vi. The House

-

Quentin returned home just as the sun was starting to sink to eye level between the dark silhouettes of the trees. The expansive forest of great white oaks towering over him blocked out the sun for the most part, but around dusk the blinding summer sunset streaked through the dim shade and made it very hard to drive the four-wheeler he used to get around the property. He really needed a jeep, had been eyeing one in the used car lot up in Knightsville for a while now. He could afford it, but he’d been so busy lately - and now with Eliot appearing out of thin air the last thing he wanted to do was add more items to the list of things he didn’t have time to do.

Besides, he had a whole new load of scorched wood he’d found deep in the forest that needed to be cleaned up, cut up, and tested. Q had plenty to keep his mind busy. He’d hit pay dirt first thing that morning, a nice change for him that kept him hacking away at a tree for hours. It had been a good, long,  _ cathartic _ and exhausting day; and now all he wanted to do was unload everything, go collapse on the couch with a beer, and veg out to Netflix or something for the rest of the night. 

To his credit, as he pulled up to the barn and hopped out of the car - stretching his arms high above his head and letting his shoulders pop in a satisfying succession - he was so oblivious to everything beyond the dusty summer night slowly falling around him and the task before him he didn’t see at first. Didn’t hear anything over the crickets in the grass and the cicadas in the trees. He’d unhitched the trailer and dragged it over to his workspace, dug out a tarp that was relatively clean of mud, and was busy tying it down when the light finally started to fade enough that something shined in the corner of his eye. His hands paused in the middle of his work. Slowly, Quentin looked up and turned towards his head towards the house nestled down by the bend in the river. 

It was  _ clean _ . The paint looked fresh, touched up in all the right places to make it shine like a new penny. The roof had been cleared off of debris and leaves, some shingles looked newer than others giving it a charming patchwork appearance, and the gutters had been cleaned out as well. He’d had a dandelion growing out of the northwest gutter for the past 2 years he hadn’t bothered to get rid of and now it was gone. Hedges trimmed, fresh flowers planted, patio furniture Q had  _ never _ seen before dotting the wrap around porch that no longer had any random boxes or broken junk littering it. And to top it all off, every window was lit up like a Christmas tree. Casting a yellow light across the newly moved lawns and sitting so pretty in the falling dusk of Indiana summer. It looked picture perfect.

That was not Quentin’s house. That was not the house he had left when he’d walked out the door at 7:00am that morning. 

Like a moth to the flame he found himself crossing the grass as quick as his legs would take him, and he was suddenly walking through his front door and stuttering to a stop at the sight before him. Inside, it was like a Country Living magazine. He almost didn’t recognize the layout, or anything in it, and his chest got tight as panic settled beneath his skin. Breath threatening to hitch until he started to see things he recognized artfully placed here and there amongst all the  _ new _ things. Stuff that was always  _ theirs _ was still there. But every piece of furniture looked new - except for the couch, strangely - speckled with a million random pieces of decorations, and before him laid a small four person table with a table setting that looked like it cost more than Quentin’s truck. Underneath the carefully wrapped presentation there was something else even more unexpected: the sideboards were clean, the clutter was gone, laundry wasn’t hidden in various nooks and crannies, and the floors were swept spotless. His stuff wasn’t where he’d left it - in his way that probably looked messy to anyone else, but was right where he’d wanted to pick it back up (someday) - but overall it was so  _ clean _ , and bright _. _ There were even candles lit despite the overhead lights on, and it made the whole house smell like ‘fresh linen’ or something vaguely cinnamon. 

Normally Q would be flattered he’d come home to an unexpectedly clean house. Sometimes Julia would show up and clean for him (on impulse more than kindness) when she made it up to Carthage once in a blue moon. Quentin might have even been excited about the new stuff, he was never good with decorating or shopping for things, but - everything was so different. So  _ very _ different, and so suddenly different from what he’d expected to walk into that his brain was already screaming  _ WRONG WRONG WRONG _ and it left Quentin standing there fumbling for something to grab onto. His gaze darting around the rooms he could see from the doorway to make sure everything he loved and treasured was still in the last place he’d left it, or somewhere adjacent. 

Oddly, the first moment of relief to Quentin’s anxiety-riddled nerves was seeing Eliot through the small window from the living room into the kitchen. It eased a lot of the tension that was building up in his spine painfully and hotly. Because if this was all Eliot’s doing, over-dramatic theatrics aside, Quentin knew (and somehow trusted) that Eliot wouldn’t go  _ too _ overboard. Even though the whole situation was looking so… s _ o _ overboard.

He really should be shaking himself, doing something as naive as trusting Eliot like he was, as much as he was, after all this time. After the past two days. 

A flourish of colors and expensive fabrics, Eliot spun out of the kitchen dressed in another silk button down and vest ensemble that clung to his form. An apron draped over the outfit that somehow clashed and complimented it at the same time. He also had a wine bottle in hand, and looked not one bit surprised at Quentin standing in shock in his own foyer. Looking like Peir 1 just bitch slapped him and he didn’t how to react; which was pretty accurate to how Quentin felt in that moment.

“Oh darling, you’re home,” Eliot said with an easy smile that was… also slightly mocking. “How was work? Dinner’s almost ready.” Quentin tried not to laugh, a bitter dry thing escaped from deep in his chest, his mouth still open in shock and he couldn’t bring himself to close it. Because okay - okay he got it. 

“Cut the shit, where’s my stuff,” Quentin said, wide eyes still darting about double checking that he could still see their quilt, photos, his books, his video games, his tool set, his computer. Check, check, check. Eliot wasn’t a  _ complete _ monster; he wouldn’t have gotten rid of anything important. He hoped. But also, how many throw pillows did one couch need? Jesus.

“Now what kind of husband would I be if I didn’t pick up after  _ my _ husband,” Eliot said in a sing-songy tone. Something that should have been sweet, even said without any malice and a small smile, lost any and all affection the moment Eliot came up and pinched his cheek as he spoke. Like Quentin was three years old. Then he mussed up his hair as he spun on a heel and kept floating around the room like he was  _ actually _ getting dinner ready. Wait - had he really cooked dinner? Something that smelled a lot like chicken and a delectable array of spices was wafting from the stovetop along with faint sizzling sounds. But Quentin couldn’t even focus on that, his ears ringing with Eliot’s over-emphasized  _ husband _ .  _ What kind of husband _ -

“The kind that doesn’t  _ live here _ , Eliot! Now for the last time, give me the hide-a-key and stop  _ breaking in here _ .” Eliot completely ignored him as he returned his attention back to whatever he was cooking on the stove. Quentin bristled and his anxiety was definitely ebbing away to anger, now.

“You know I had the sweetest talk with Kady’s Nana about her tractor,” Eliot continued conversationally. “Turns out she can get a great one from the insurance now that I’ve been accused as the vandalizer. Also, she looks  _ amazing _ for 83, not a day over 65 if I’d had to guess - and I should know. Some of those old bags at the opera house in Manhattan would kill for her complexion. Literally.” 

“Nice to see you reconnecting with the community,” Q said with an eye roll, sarcasm dripping as he picked up random ceramic objects and decorations that didn’t seem to make any sense but somehow also complimented the eye. His whole living room resembled the pages of one of those giant ISPY puzzle books. 

“Oh, I stumbled across a few things I’d forgotten about today,” Eliot said back, and Quentin gave him a hard side-eye. That didn’t sound ominous at all. Setting down the ceramic English Bulldog he’d been picking at, he stormed into the kitchen and near tripped over his own feet as he stopped short once again.

“HOLY SHIT WHAT HAPPENED TO THE STOVE!” Scratch that. Every appliance was new, shining black and silver under the fluorescent light. The tile backwash was new too, as well as the countertops, and even the flooring that had once been linoleum patterned to look like tile was now  _ actual _ ceramic tiling. It looked great, expensive, and Quentin was very dumb-founded how Eliot had been able to change out  _ so much _ in a single day. He went to the fridge and threw it open in search of a beer (god he needed one) to find it completely rearranged and filled to the brim with things he had not bought. “Where did you even find all of this?” He pulled a craft beer from the door shelving and inspected it, weirdly shaped and wrapped in a label that said it was not from anywhere in the state of Indiana. 

“That’s a good one,” Eliot pointed at it, passing by him as he bustled about (attempting to hide a smirk at Quentin’s very verbal freak out). “You look like a coffee stout kind of guy. We never got to play much with types of beer and wine, guzzling McCormicks’ vodka like it was water out in the cornfields.” They both shuttered a little at the memories, Quentin noticed, but he also chose to ignore anything Eliot was saying and just went digging for a bottle opener.

He opened every. Single. Drawer.  _ Where _ had Eliot bought so much  _ stuff _ ?! 

Finally, Quentin just fished into his own jean’s pocket for his keys and pried the bottle cap off that way. Glaring at Eliot who hadn’t voiced a single peep or given him anything other than a smirk in indication of his struggle for alcohol.

“I got almost everything done except the bed. I just wasn’t happy with anything at the Nebraska Furniture Mart in Whiteland. I’ll have to get something ordered from Des Moines, or Kansas City maybe. I could always find something great in New York but even that amount for shipping seems a little unreasonable,” he laughed the fakest laugh Quentin had ever heard, and he had a feeling it had to do with the stupid amount of money he’d spent on express shipping and delivery and set up and anything else required for the stunt he’d just pulled. 

“Whatever floats your boat,” Q grumbled barely loud enough for Eliot to hear as he brought the bottle to his lips, first smelling an aroma of straight cold coffee that left Quentin wondering how it was going to even taste like a beer. “Spend your money all you want.” It was an impressive amount of commitment just to shock Quentin, but it had worked - he would admit that.

Quentin didn’t know how, but without even facing him Q could  _ feel _ Eliot’s sly smile at his back, the mischievousness and pure mirth behind it, and the silent gesture made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

“Oh, but, I always thought we’d agreed to consider it...  _ our money _ .”

He didn’t even taste the sip that he pulled from the bottle, because Q immediately choked on it and spit it out all over the brand new tile floors. A cold air wafted from where Eliot had been hovering over the kitchen counter, expertly cutting up vegetables as he continued to make ‘dinner’ in his little charade - but he wasn’t chopping anything any more. His whole tone changed as he stalked closer to Quentin’s still turned back, the slow rolling gait of an approaching predator. 

“Let me guess, the words ‘Joint Checking’ are flashing through your mind right about now? Yeah, I found that out at the bank this morning, much to my surprise,” he said with the smallest hints of annoyance and pleasure braided through his barbed words. Quentin wiped the fuzzy coffee-smelling beer from his mouth and nose, where it had foamed down the front of his shirt and jacket, and turned to Eliot’s ever so carefully guarded, haughty expression. 

There was no longer fear in his voice when he spoke, just quiet rage. “How much did you take?”

Eliot smiled. “All of it.”

The bottle clanked on the counter so hard Quentin thought it would break apart in his hands, but at least he didn’t throw it against the wall like he’d wanted to.

“ARE YOU  _ FUCKING _ KIDDNG ME?!”

“You want a husband, well you got one,” Eliot snapped. Ripping the apron off and flourishing to himself as if - surprise, bitch - he’s the downside to the whole package. His voice dripped sarcasm and mockery as he continued to drive the knife in further and twist it inside Quentin’s chest. “And to make up for lost time, I took care of everything you’ve been avoiding for the past seven years around this dump, with added interest because I’m a  _ high maintenance bitch _ if I remember your words correctly-”

“I never called you a bitch, but you’re sure as shit acting like one.”

“-and WHY do you have all that cash anyway? Why don’t you invest it? I know you know that! You are not this dumb, Quentin, stop acting like it.”

“Just- GET OUT, ELIOT. Get out of MY HOUSE! MINE, NOT YOURS, NOT OURS, I can’t believe you came in here and  _ CHANGED everything _ .” His exterior was starting to crack, just as his voice did the moment he began to realize how much was different. How  _ much _ there was all around him. He didn’t know where anything was anymore - he probably couldn’t even find his pills if he needed them. Did he need them? He felt like he needed them. He felt like he could barely draw breath.

He didn’t see Eliot storm to the couch where his satchel was sitting hidden among the many throw pillows, and pulled out that  _ god forsaken _ manila envelope again and started talking to him. His voice far away and underwater, but Quentin managed to get the gist. “Just sign the papers, I’ll give it all back, you can change whatever you want back to the trash heap it was - I didn’t throw anything out that wasn’t actually garbage and you know that. Fucking breath, Q.” He didn’t speak with any bite this time, his harsh words softening the further along he went. Eliot knew he had pushed very hard at a very careful boundary, so close to breaking it but not quite, just enough to get the result he wanted. Quentin was finding himself giving into what Eliot had wanted most of all out of this whole trip - he was really starting to hate Eliot down to his very core. After all this time, Eliot could still play him like a fucking old time piano.

“Fine,” Quentin gasped out, spit out, caved in and collapsed like a house of cards.

“Fine,” Eliot parroted.

“Get me a pen.”

Eliot made space for him on the couch, guiding him without touching him to sit down, then perched next to him with a good foot of distance between them. He found a pen in his satchel, but held onto it a beat longer. Stretching to infinity in the echoing quiet after their shouting match.

“One question, why  _ do _ you have all that money in your debit account? Where did it even come from?”

“Just give me the damn pen, Eliot,” Quentin grumbled. His hand outstretched for it like an idiot and he felt like one the longer the other man questioned him. He wasn’t going to get an answer out of Q, not after all that had happened the past few days. The past few hours.

“And you never went to college?” Eliot burst out, he’d been doing some digging apparently. There must have been a lot of time for him to brood and stew over it while he was transforming the inside of the house. 

“I finished online.”

“Why the hell would you stay here all these years, Q-uentin,” he stumbled, the first time the whole time he’d been there. He didn’t want to use the beloved nickname during this conversation, and Quentin was grateful. Eliot became very quiet as Quentin refused to answer him, or even look at him, and then (after another long awkward silence filled to the brim with unspoken words) Eliot forced himself to ask the question that had obviously been festering the most. “Quentin, why do you have all that money ready to cash out? Ready to empty out and spend, or send to anyone at a moment’s notice?” Quentin couldn’t decide if he was more sad, angry, or disappointed that Eliot took this long to make that connection - wrong as it was.

“Not for the reason you’re thinking, and stop asking. I haven’t asked you questions about your boyfriend, or about why you suddenly need a divorce right this very second. Like you said, I’m not dumb, Eliot.” He didn’t feel the need to say his speculation out loud, the look on Eliot’s face was enough of a confirmation. Eliot’s expression was as shocked as if Quentin had turned and slapped him. Good. “So stop trying to butt into my life like you give a shit.” He took his opening, snatched the pen from Eliot’s stunned hands, and then the envelope - near ripping the papers as he took them out.

“L-Look, Q-” 

“No one finds their soulmate when they’re six years old.” 

Quentin didn’t realize he’d said it outloud until he did, or how he’d been subconsciously thinking back to all the years and summers they’d spent together. How he’d always thought he’d known Eliot backwards and forwards, but now he couldn’t even recognize the cruel shape of a man sitting next to him - no matter how much it resembled who he’d fallen in love with. His hands, working the rings on his fingers (absent an engagement ring, he was glad to notice) like he always did when he was nervous or scared; his face, slowly drawing down and revealing more emotion than he probably thought he was. His eyes, sad and far away and trying to block out a lot of things he’d probably forced himself to forget. Even sitting next to him, Eliot was running as far away as fast as he could. Too focused on making it quick to see how much damage it was leaving behind. 

“Yeah, I suppose,” Eliot said in that accent that was slowly bleeding away to how he used to talk. How he used to sound half-asleep in the morning, or his mind on another plane of existence as he scanned his phone or read a book. Quentin wondered if he still read as much as he used to after they moved in together. His fingers were calloused from sewing machines and thousands of hours of hand-stitched beadwork, but that  _ just makes it easier to turn the pages, Q. If I ever have to lick a thumb or something else obscenely ivory tower you sit my ass back in my workroom and tell me I’m going soft. Quite literally. _ “Not much fun in that, huh?” Eliot tried to joke in continuation, glancing at Quentin as if to confirm something. To see if Quentin had really been sitting there holding a candle for Eliot for seven long years, or if he’d tried to put himself out there and find someone new. Really try for a new life. 

He did his best to quirk a smile back, but it fell flat and didn’t reach his eyes. It made Eliot tear his gaze away with all the hurt and violence of ripping off a very large bandage, just like Quentin had expected him to.

Eliot’s skittering stare landed on the mantel over the fireplace, where he’d placed something Quentin had  _ not _ expected to find front and center. Not from Eliot. It was a picture of a tree Q had taken in freshman photography class, one of the only artistic things he’d ever been proud of. Eliot was the artistic one, not him. The black and white, high contrast photo showed the tree split open with a fire burning on the inside - photographic proof that lightning did indeed strike the same place twice. It was a miracle that tree stood as long as it did after enduring that.

“I can’t believe you kept that all these years,” Eliot murmured, sounding so like himself Quentin’s chest ached.

To the side of the tree in the photo, a little blurry from the focus of the camera lens (and the inexperience of the photographer), was Eliot. Fifteen years old and watching their tree burn for the second time in their lifetime. That was the first night they’d kissed, and Quentin remembered every detail. He’d been so sure he’d fucked it up, that he wasn’t doing it right - but they had kept at it for over an hour, so he must’ve done something right to keep Eliot there and smiling and holding on to him that long. In all that time, all the years they’d been together, he’d sworn he’d done something right. 

Now he was sitting there, on the couch they had found on the side of the road a year after high school, about to divorce the love of his life, and then that would be the end. The last page of the book. Quentin hated the end of books. Every time he finished one he always went right back to the beginning, flipping to the first page like it was the next one and no one could tell him otherwise, just to try and keep the magic going. So the story was never over.

“A lot of people don’t know that’s what happens when lightning strikes a tree, sometimes,” Eliot was still musing, still lost in his own head and for once - Quentin found he wasn’t panicking anymore. Wasn’t drowning in those memories that had flooded their home after he had left, pouring in through the windows and lapping at the walls until they covered the furniture and Quentin and rose all the way to the ceiling. This time Quentin wasn’t gasping for breath, grasping for purchase. This time, something was beginning to form in his mind, inspiration from his own maudlin thoughts; a plan of his own, half formed and more than likely to fall apart - but not before he managed to get a leg up on the whole situation.

Especially after seeing how Eliot was reacting to his near mental breakdown. Deep down, way down deep - like bedrock levels - he was still the man Quentin remembered. There was nothing wrong with this new life he’d made, this new person he’d discovered that Q knew he would easily trip over himself falling for: poised, confident, intelligent and worldly, and  _ caring _ . Deep down he still fucking cared, no matter how much he was trying to convince Quentin he didn’t. The proof was in the details, in the attention he paid to the house and the way Quentin would be living in it afterwards - making sure it was all taken care of, that he would be taken care of, and never utter a word of his intentions. But that wasn’t even his biggest tell.

Every time Eliot performed one of these extravagant ploys, like a story-book villain preying on the protagonist’s fears and weaknesses, his resolve cracked. He always reverted, had to constantly remind himself why he was there; Quentin could fucking see it. It was so obvious, and Eliot thought it wasn’t which was so,  _ so _ infuriating. And so sad. Eliot’s first instinct to anything that got too hard was to self-destruct and run away, but now he was in a corner and he couldn’t flee like he always used to. Quentin was sure he would be able to regroup and figure out a way to get Eliot to stop lying to himself, he just needed more time, and that required throwing Eliot off his game. 

Quentin had a plan.

Yes, yes that just might work.

“Oh shit,” Quentin suddenly said, pulling up the time on his phone and acting like he’d just remembered something. “Completely forgot.” Eliot snapped over to look at him and blinked owlishly from being ripped from his own thoughts. He was so caught off guard Quentin could eat it up with a spoon. “I have a date.”

The burst of laughter out of Eliot’s mouth was unexpected, but it did not hit the same note of confusion lining his expression or the surprise in his eyes. Quentin didn’t give either of them time to get lost in those emotions. He jumped up from the couch and flipped through the documents like he was actually skimming what was on the pages. He was not. “You don’t mind if I have the family lawyer look this over real quick before I sign it, right?” He threw it to the kitchen table, narrowly avoiding the lit candles (such a shame) and rushed into the bedroom, pulling his shirt off quickly because it smelled like carbon emissions and wood shavings. Not much he could do about his hair or the dirt under his nails, but he could at least put on clean clothes before he went out in public. He quickly shot a text to the one person who’d been begging him to get a drink the past couple months, and who he knew would drop whatever she was doing if she wasn’t free to begin with. He asked if his not-so-fake date could be ready in 30 minutes, already knowing the answer. She had expressed enthusiasm, at length, and there was a chance Q would live to regret this but it was probably worth it for the look on Eliot’s face.

“QUENTIN! What the hell!?” Eliot shouted. He had followed him to the bedroom and stopped short in the doorway, bracing his hands against the frame and totally getting an eyefull of how much the lumber yard had sculpted Quentin’s back and shoulders, but Q couldn’t even be bothered.

Okay, that was a lie; just like he wasn’t flexing a little as soon as he heard Eliot’s hands hit the doorframe. Nope, not at all.

“Hey, it’s been  _ years _ since student court, and I was a terrible attorney if you can recall,” Quentin told him, making sure to turn around as he was buttoning up his shirt. Eliot’s gaze was burning a trail down his chest, following his fingers as he fastened each one. “You could be taking everything - legally this time, now that you know how much I have in assets.”

“ _ Quentin _ , really,” Eliot drawled, coming out more as a purr than a mockery (which did  _ not _ do things to Q’s heart rate), and he would have rolled his eyes if he hadn’t been trying so hard not to blink. Quentin smirked and ducked his head to try and hide it. He knew Eliot’s networth was probably insane - but, surprise, so was his. 

“You did say you have a lot of legal fees,” Quentin dared to joke, a wry smile crossing his face as he ran his hands over his cheeks and chin to test the stubble there. He pulled his hair out of the pony tail, shaking out around his shoulders and smoothing down the waves stuck there, tucking longer strands behind his ears. He was supposed to be going on a date, after all. Eliot’s eyes got hazy at the actions, breath caught up in his throat so tight it made his chest rise a little and now Quentin was staring back. “I’m going to be late.”

Once upon a time, that would have been an offer. An invitation, to make him  _ more _ late, and Eliot knew that. Could probably play out what had happened in that very spot just as well as Q could. His pupils dilated at the memories, standing in their bedroom doorway, and Quentin couldn’t breathe just waiting. Hoping. No matter how much that made him feel like a bad person. But Eliot pulled back, allowed Quentin to pass, and Q had to slide by him and pretend he wasn’t disappointed. 

“Wait, wait you can’t,” Eliot’s voice followed after him, but Quentin knew he couldn’t dare to hope any more that night. “You need to sign these!” Yep, good job Coldwater - eyes on the prize.

“And I will! Tomorrow!” he hollered back, jovially. He grabbed his keys and shoved his feet into some dress shoes that clashed with his jeans and button down more than a little bit. It would annoy the fuck out of Eliot.

“I’M GOING HOME TOMORROW!” Eliot called as he left out the front door, racing to the porch and shouting at him across the dark lawn. “QUENTIN!” But Q just waved him off, made a gesture that could have been interpreted that he heard him (if Eliot could even see him in the dark shadows under the trees), and climbed up into his truck. Thankful to see the thumbs up emoji in his texts as he pulled out of the drive as fast as he could. Now he wasn’t technically lying. He did have a date. Honestly.

It was also kind of nice to see Eliot standing there in the rear view mirror, for once, a little lost and angry and not sure what to do. Quentin held that small victory to his chest to keep his heart from dragging itself down into his stomach. Because now he had a  _ date _ , and yes - it had been that long.

What the hell had he just gotten himself into?

\--


	8. vii. The Bar

-

Eliot. Was. Furious. 

Not that his plan failed, after an  _ epic _ amount of planning and haggling and a little bit of yelling to get his point across to the underpaid retail workers who had no say in helping him with his evil plot. He tipped well, if that was any consolation. 

Not because Quentin had one-upped him and tricked him into letting him slip out that door and drive off before he could get a word in edgewise. That was clever, sneaky, and he had actually caught Eliot off guard when he first came up with his sloppy counter-plan. But it worked, and it left Eliot standing in the grass in front of their house watching him drive away and wasn’t that just a kick to the balls. The irony alone. Clever boy.

No, it was because Eliot had… slipped. He’d gotten lost in the charade, in his mission to take precise jabs in very particular pressure points of Quentin’s psyche so this whole damn thing would be  _ over with _ . Eliot didn’t want this to keep dragging out, it was agonizing - and he could see it was just as bad for Quentin - this wasn’t what he’d come to Indiana to do. He just wanted the divorce finalized. He wanted to be back home in his small brick-lined apartment surrounded by his friends and his career and his  _ life _ . But, Eliot had slipped and he’d slipped hard. Full on comedic flail and fallen flat on his ass, because he’d been so  _ blinded  _ by his annoyance, his anger at the situation he was put in, that he hadn’t seen when he’d stepped over the line.

Well, not over it - on it really, enough he could call himself out on it and the referees would have a shouting match at each other to figure out if he’d gone too far. If they had referees in this imaginary scenario (oh my god he was using  _ sports _ metaphors, he needed to get back to New York). 

But Eliot had slipped, when he realized he’d gone too far. He’d caved, allowed  _ feelings _ to work their way back in when he’d solemnly swore he was there to cause a ruckus and get out. Rip it off like a long overdue bandaid. Sure it would hurt like a son of a bitch and the sting would linger a while, but it would be done. Instead, he’d fallen into a pit of memories and old sentiments and times when he and Quentin were so in love it hurt to breathe. That damn night by the tree…

No, he wasn’t going to focus on that anymore. Just like he wasn’t going to focus on how good Quentin had looked, shedding his work clothes and shaking out his hair around his shoulders, easy smiles and quick, darting looks Eliot couldn’t help but catch. Q always thought he was slick and he was  _ not _ , but it was adorable how he tried, and a little sexy how he wasn’t afraid to use his advantages when he saw them. He didn’t used to do that. Seven years ago, if Quentin had known he’d had a boyfriend/fiancè and Eliot was trying his damndest to divorce him, he wouldn’t have turned to him with a half buttoned shirt and told him he ‘was going to be late’. That was their  _ thing _ . It had been their thing since High School, and every single  _ amazing  _ sexual experience that had resulted from that phrase had shot through Eliot’s brain. A slideshow that made him swallow hard and his vision go fuzzy. He’s fucking  _ slipped _ . God damn Quentin Coldwater and every stubborn bone in his body.

He just wanted to go home. 

But now, Eliot was filled to the brim with rage - and that was a tall glass of resentment he’d managed to fill up in the time since he’d slammed his car door and drove back to the Waugh farm. He had a date of his own, and he still had to get ready. He was going to be dressed to  _ kill _ when he left his mother’s trailer, because Eliot knew for a fucking fact that the only place Quentin would take a date would be Ted’s Place. Unless he’d actually found someone he was serious about, and Eliot would eat his tie if Quentin was in a serious relationship and still this obscenely stubborn about the bill of divorcement. That man drove him crazy!

He looked great, coiffed and perfect from head to toe, wrapped in a custom design ‘casual’ suit that fit him like a damn glove. He’d know, he made it. The dive bar out by the rock quarry wouldn’t know what hit it.

The gravel and dirt parking lot crunched under the tires of his luxury rental, he didn’t know the model but it had the shiny Mercedes Benz emblem on the front and that helped remind Eliot that he’d shown at Fashion Week only days ago and he was a  _ badass _ . The stark white and silver vehicle stuck out in the lot’s flood lights, a high contrast sandwiched between two rusted pick-up’s lifted high enough even Eliot couldn’t look over them. But he sauntered up to the bar entrance like he owned the place, and gave the doorman an unimpressed look as he flashed his NYC driver’s license. Bible belt laws, everyone was carded even if your hair was streaked with grey. 

He ducked into the dim, smoky bar filled wall to wall with people he’d never expected to see again. Life and it’s little fucking surprises, huh. But he barely made it a foot inside before his phone buzzed, Sebastian’s face lighting up the screen, and Eliot darted to a corridor to answer - immediately breathing a sigh of relief as he answered.

“I cannot tell you how much I can’t wait to hear your voice, darling,” his drawl rolled off his tongue and that was just as sweet as the chuckle in his ear from the other end of the line. It was like novocaine to his spine and he melted against the wall to better hear the other man over the rowdy voices and music of the bar.

“Are you sitting down?”

“Why? No good news first?” Eliot asked in jest, and decided he didn’t even care. Sebastian could read him the classifieds and Eliot would be elated. 

“I just picked up a magazine from the newsstand on my way home from work,” Sebastian went on, and Eliot could hear the honks of taxi cabs, the roar of the city in the background, and felt so homesick his chest ached. He didn’t even register what Sebastian had said for a moment, until he started reading - then he stood straight up in fear and anticipation. “And I quote,  _ Eliot Waugh was the sparkling jewel of New York Fashion Week this weekend. The soon to be household name was the breath of fresh air desperately needed this season, blowing through the tents of fashion week like the oncoming storm we all expect from  _ **_The Next Big One_ ** _. 2020 is the year of glitz, glam, and diamonds. Bring on the roaring 20’s. _ ” A surprised sound burst out of him, and Eliot didn’t know when he’d started holding his breath but now he was grinning ear to ear and let out the gasp of air caught in his chest. It sounded like a laugh and relief and everything all at once.

“God, I needed that. To heart that - just as much as I needed to hear you. It’s been a horrendous few days, eventful - to say the least.”

“Speaking of hearing things, what is that noise?” Sebastian all but laughed, balking, and Eliot realized how loud it must be even scrunched in the waitress hallway. Where he’d already been given looks and widened eyes in recognition by the wait staff. Ted would know soon. 

“The sound of my past,” Eliot ground out, looking around for any face he might recognize a little too well, as well as giving pointed glares to the waitresses trying to get a good look at his own face. They knew who he was, no need to stare. 

“Well, go have fun, I guess,” Sebastian laughed again. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Eliot said back, fast and more on instinct than he’d ever had before. He didn’t know if it was the fact they were so far apart, or where he was, or what he’d gone through the past couple days, but he could practically feel Sebastian beaming from whatever New York street corner he was standing on. “Talk to you tomorrow.” Eliot ended the call and took a quick look over his shoulder a few times, straightening his jacket and vest - overdressed as all get out - before he steeled himself for the walk across the bar. Everyone was packed like sardines and he towered over about 70% of them so he was going to stick out, no matter what he was wearing or how long he’d be gone. He might as well look damn good while he did.

On top of all that, he had to actually  _ go _ to the bar to get the drink he desperately needed in that moment, and also find a seat for himself and Alice to converse the night away. She was running late, had texted him not long after he parked, and that was more worrying than surprising but he was trying not to focus on it too much. He had other problems. It was only a matter of time before -

“SARAH! OPEN UP A TAB!” A familiar voice called over by the line of beer taps. “And make sure you start a tally on this man; don’t need any repeats of incidents passed. First round is on me, though.” The last was said with a warm wink and Eliot rolled his eyes as leaned against the bar. 

“You don’t have to do that, Ted,” Eliot said with a strained smile as the man rounded the bartop to come up to him. He was not prepared for the warm smile, the crinkle around the eyes, the look that said the man was… actually  _ happy  _ to see him. Eliot hadn’t expected that at all. He half thought he’d get thrown out.

“Of course I do! What kind of man doesn’t like to spoil his favorite son-in-law, now get over here and give this old man a hug.” He didn’t even give Eliot a moment to hesitate, bringing the taller man in for a bone-crushing embrace that Eliot did not need indented on his very soul. He truly didn’t understand, but it also wasn’t the first time Ted Coldwater had surprised him with affection. The man basically raised him, Eliot’s own father being the poorest example to ever grace the planet. But Quentin was his  _ actual _ son, he should hold some kind of resentment towards Eliot. Right? 

“Soon to be  _ ex _ -son-in-law,” Eliot said, pulling himself out of the hug and preparing for a backlash. He almost regretted ruining the moment, holding up his hand to show the ring as an example - he’d put it back on because Alice wanted to see it just as badly as Margo had. The two of them would be trouble if they ever met. He had hoped the ring would be a quick thing but Ted took it as an offer and snagged his hand, holding it under the lights to get a good look.

“Whoo-boy, that’s a lot of shiny pebbles. Who’s the lucky guy?” he didn’t sound mad, or anything really. It shocked Eliot to his core. He guessed it shouldn’t have, Ted Coldwater hadn’t even been mad at his wife for divorcing him and taking half his family fortune. He did not hold a grudge. He’d also told Eliot a long time ago that he would always be in Eliot’s corner. No matter what. Apparently, even if Eliot broke his son’s heart. Eliot didn’t know what to do with that.

“His name’s Sebastian, he’s the secretary of City Planning in Manhattan,” he parroted robotically, not sure what to feel. 

“Politics? Very nice, he’s got my vote,” Ted chuckled, smiling again and looking back at Eliot like he was a person and not a snake in the grass trying to leave as fast as he could slither. “You look good, son. New York’s been good to you.” Eliot tried to smile back but it was so hard to hold. His brain reverted back to networking; Margo had drilled it into him the past few years. One step shy of brainwashing, he swore.

“Thank you, so do you,” he answered automatically, and was ready for a tangent about the bustling business of the bar but Ted was already shaking his head and waving off the previous comment.

“No I don’t, but I do look better than when I was in the middle of chemo. Finally getting some meat back on my bones, and my hair’s growing back! Bonus for me, the doc said it probably wouldn’t-” he was laughing like it was a long standing joke and Eliot wasn’t sure he was breathing. His brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders, and he hadn’t even started drinking yet.

“Wait, what?” Eliot was left blinking in the lights, and he couldn’t feel his body it was burning so numbly. Hot and cold all over. 

“Oh,” Ted paused, sobered, “Did - did Curly-Q not tell you? I was diagnosed about five years ago, brain cancer. Inoperable, so they said, I about gave up but Quentin convinced me to give chemo a go. Tumor shrunk, then they went in and dug the worst of it out.” He turned and motioned to a scar on the back of his head, barely hidden by the thin gray hair there. “Been in remission for almost 2 years now.” He was beaming, a man given another chance at life, and Eliot can’t even manage to smile back. Any twitch to his mouth that might resemble one was thin and startled. 

“Ted-” 

“I’m fine, Eliot,” Ted told him, hand on his shoulder solidly and helping ground Eliot more in the moment. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.” They both didn’t say anything about how untrue that was, or about how Eliot still said Ted’s name in the same tone one might say ‘dad’. Eliot had no idea he’d been sick, no  _ idea _ . He’d almost never known. Ted would have died while he was gone and Eliot wouldn’t have even known, until someone else decided to throw him a bone about a funeral he might miss because he  _ wasn’t there _ . 

In the shocked silence Ted just smiled more softly, seeing something in him even Eliot couldn’t understand, and squeezed his shoulder lovingly. “It’s good to see you, Eliot. Don’t forget to say goodbye before you duck out tonight, we can try and catch up if there’s time. Oh, and the whole thing is on the house. Don’t let the girls bully you, I bet your liquor choices are a bit better than post-high school. Anything you want.” He hugged Eliot again, and this time Eliot hugged him back as best he could before the man disappeared into the crowd. Back to working his bar that he was so proud of, and Eliot… needed a drink. Badly.

The nosy, eavesdropping bartender had already poured him a shot of whiskey, and slid it across the bartop towards him slowly. Not saying a word, and Eliot decided Ted had trained his employees well. He threw the shot back, turned the glass upside down, still standing in the same spot Ted had left him. With a heaved sigh that moved his whole chest and shoulders, he shook out the jitters and let the warmth of the whiskey reawaken his veins, and spun on his heel to look for a place for himself and Alice to claim. 

The motion was interrupted by Eliot almost tripping over Julia Wicker. Standing there behind him and glaring up at him with her full 5’1” like she could tower over him if she wanted to. Eliot about jumped out of his skin. 

“Julia!”

“Eliot.” Her expression didn’t even twitch. She was  _ pissed _ . 

He would  _ not _ be intimidated by a woman that was over a foot shorter than him. He would not. 

“Fancy seeing you here-” he began, clearing his throat to try and give himself a semblance of poise, but Julia cut him off. 

“Oh, I hopped the first flight back the  _ moment _ Q texted me that  _ you _ ’d shown up.” She ticked her head to the side, and continued to pin him with her penetrating gaze. Was she even blinking? “You get what you came for?”

“No,” he said, more petulant than he would have liked. “Quentin’s made sure of that.” Stubborn dick.

Julia smiled and it curled up her face with this vindictive mirth Eliot did not appreciate - of course, as soon as he found someone who (for some reason) was unequivocally on his side, he ran into someone who was very much _ not _ . Julia would always take Q’s side, always. “Good, he’s been a lot better about not backing down since you’ve left.”

“I noticed,” Eliot muttered, and Julia just looked even more smugly proud. What came next burst out of him in exasperation, could someone just please  _ listen _ to him? “Look, I’m planning on leaving as soon as I can - he just, if he would just sign the bill of divorcement I’d get out of everyone’s hair. You’d never have to see me again.” It was that fucking simple.

“You think I’m not happy to see you?” her expression finally changed, eyebrows drawn together as she frowned. 

“I think you’re only happy because now you can punch me in the balls yourself.” He’d been half shying away and keeping slightly angled just in case, Julia looked out for blood and Eliot couldn’t really blame her. But he’d also seen her beat someone’s ass for Q before (it was high school, but he doubted her right hook had changed all that much).

She snorted a laugh, returning to her smug smirk that curled so easily on her lips. “Well, you’re not wrong. But no, I think Q has you covered pretty well.” There were a couple dozen implications in that statement, Eliot narrowing his eyes right back at her but she shrugged him off and continued - just a little more condescending. “And  _ believe it or not _ , this trip home doesn’t actually revolve completely around you two. I moved on just like the rest of you.”

“Yeah, I can see that, you look like you’ve seen a lot of sun,” Eliot mentioned, not quite sure what she was getting at. But she did look more delightfully weathered; the sun freckles dotting her caramel skin across the bridge of her nose were really very faint and cute. “And your hair looks amazing.” He was actually kind of jealous. “Where do you live now.”

“Corpus Christi.”

“ _ Texas _ ? You?” he balked.

“It’s a literal beach town, calling it Texas is kind of insulting. I’m working on my doctorate and teaching at the A&M campus down there.” She lived on the beach, that explained it. Saltwater did amazing things for wavy hair. Now he was  _ really _ jealous, what a place to live - seeing the ocean every day. Most people in their part of Indiana had never even seen the ocean outside their television screen.

“Why the hell do you even come back here?” 

“Some of us know how to balance a relationship at home and being a grown up in another state,” Julia said with a little more dark anger lacing her words. Now she was glaring at him again, just when the conversation had started to look like it was turning towards civil. At least a little bit.

“Wait, what are you talking about?” 

“I’m saying I got married,” Julia told him, enunciated each word to make sure she was heard over the dull roar of the bar, arms crossed and looking right into his eyes, “and my loving wife lives here, and we make it  _ work _ . In fact it works out just fine, better than fine! The sex is amazing every time we get back together.”

“ _ Who _ -” Eliot didn’t even get to stutter out his question before it died in his throat, knowing that wasn’t the point she was trying to make. Julia had barely dated in high school, and he had no clue who she could be married to. But by Julia’s hard stare that wasn’t what mattered. Nor that he had somehow missed another queer married couple now resided in their little 30 square miles of farmland community. Julia leaned forward, arms still crossed, and looked up at him like she was looking down on him. 

“I’m saying you didn’t try hard enough. Dick. If you knew how to stand your ground instead of running away you might have seen that.” Then she turned on her heel and stalked straight for the pool tables in the back. Eliot saw a cluster of familiar faces crowded there - including the back of Quentin’s head next to a red-haired woman he didn’t know. He stood there shell-shocked and staring; Julia’s words still ringing in his ears, just as she had intended them to.

“ _ Fuck _ .” 

This was not how his night was supposed to go.

The girls behind the bar were clustered with their heads tucked together, pretending to be cleaning glasses and not eavesdropping on Eliot getting his ass verbally handed to him. The way they averted their eyes gave them away loud and clear. Too bad, he needed to soak his brain in booze before he spiraled any further into the abyss.

“Double scotch, one ice cube, and start working on a grey goose martini,” he told the girl who had poured him the shot before. “As dirty as you can make it, with as many olives as you can physically fit in the glass.”

“Make that two martinis,” said a breathless voice beside him, like they’d just run a marathon to get there.

“ _ Oh thank God you’re here _ ,” Eliot said in a rush. He spun off the barstool and scooped up Alice in a tight hug all in the same motion. Her squeak at suddenly being wrapped up in arms that can lift her off the floor was drowned out, but she smiled all the same. Eliot set her down and offered his hand to help her climb up on the bar stool that was a few inches too tall for her, even with the cute secretary heels. She was still wearing the exact same outfit he’d seen her in that morning. “Just got off work?”

Alice gratefully accepted the martini placed before and took a very long drink that answered Eliot’s question. He watched her drain almost half of it as he skewered olives with a toothpick to eat one at a time. There was a literal mountain of them stacked in his martini glass, most of his drink was in the sidecar. 

“My job is a  _ nightmare _ ,” Alice bemoaned, her clipped words smoothed out by the vodka and vermouth. “It is most days, really; I can’t believe how late it got, and then I had to run home and check on mom which was a whole other cluster and I just - didn’t have time to change. Sorry.” The explanation came spilling out of her, so unpracticed and backed up that Eliot knew she didn’t get to vent like this to just anyone - or to anyone at all. He took a deep drink from his own glass to drown that guilt before it latched on too tightly. 

“That outfit kills everywhere, don’t even stress,” he told her with an easy smile that probably looked too much like a smirk. But Alice mirrored it and her shoulders lost some of that tension. They fell back into a cute banter, like they had never left each other’s sides, and Eliot couldn’t quite understand why it was so  _ easy _ . To slip back into the space he’d left behind, after reshaping himself and changing every aspect he could into something entirely different. But here he was, falling back into step and it took him way too long to realize that it wasn’t just him that had changed. Alice had changed, too. Their friendship wasn’t made of cut outs, a photograph split in two that was being taped back together; they were each vastly different than the last time they had met, and they were clicking because that’s how elastic their friendship was. It snapped back, molded to fit the new shapes, and was still just as comfortable - because they were just  _ that _ good. They were those kind of friends, the ones who would always click no matter the amount of time or distance placed between them. He found an insane amount of comfort in that - and in that it meant he wasn’t letting his hometown reclaim him, like he had feared. He was forcing it to make space for him, and all that that entailed.

How cathartic. 

“So,” he switched gears, now that they were both over half-way to sloshed, “you’re back home with your mom?” It was one of the things that had been bothering him the most, because - Alice had done everything she could to get away from her parents. To not be stuck here. They had been on the same page about that, even if their destinations had taken them to different parts of the country. 

She stirred the remains of her glass, olive juice swirling in the chilled vodka, not wanting to talk about it. But it had been what was weighing her down, even Eliot could see that. “It’s not really how it sounds,” she began, ever conscious of how it appeared to speculators. She’d been a victim of speculation a long time. “Or, that’s not how it started. She’s… she got worse, after my dad passed away.”

_ Fuck _ . Eliot hadn’t known that, either. “Alice-”

“It was the year you were in Paris, you couldn’t have known and I wasn’t ready to talk about everything that happened,” Alice interrupted him, bulldozed over his words before any deep feelings could come to the surface. “I had to leave school, lost my full ride, to help mom with her breakdown she had. She went  _ feral _ , El. I couldn’t just leave her.” Her words were so complicated, regretful and resigned and somehow still so strong in her decision. No matter how quiet her voice got, their heads tucked together to be heard over the noise of the bar. “It was rough going for a while; now she’s clinical and it’s either I take care of her or she goes into a state-sanctioned care facility, and that’s pretty much prison.”

She didn’t need to tell Eliot that, dark memories clouding his vision as he drained his glass in one final gulp.

“We don’t have a lot else besides the house. Mom isn’t competent to handle the expenses my dad left her, even the funds in his will, and we’ve been in a legal battle over it so I can’t access anything either.” From the strain of her words, and the little notions she left like breadcrumbs, Eliot knew what she was saying without saying it. Not wanting to bring it to light. He was too tipsy and soaked in too much heartache to be that subtle. 

“Alice, if you were that bad for money-” 

“It’s more than even you could have loaned, Eliot, and I couldn’t ask - anyone really,” she swallowed hard and tucked stray strands of straight blonde hair behind her ear. “I have it covered.  _ Have _ had it covered. It’s been hard but we’re okay. She’s doing fine, most days, and I’m working and learning more than I ever did at Brown thanks to Mayakovsky.” The record scratched in Eliot’s head.

“At the Brakebills Estate? And wait, I thought you hated your job.”

“Only like 90% of the time,” she joked, only falling a little flat. “I go from one brand of mental instability to another. We do the weirdest, dumbest shit - when I’m not giving tours and keeping the books in order - but he is a  _ genius _ . I’ll write a book one day and become world famous, you’ll see.” She finished strong, sitting up straighter and picking up her fresh glass to cradle with poise. God, the strength she possessed - Eliot wouldn’t have been able to hold his head up like that if he were stuck in her position.

“They’ll all see,” he told her with a fond smile. 

“Every last one of you bitches.” They toasted to that and hid their grins behind the rims of their martini glasses. 

Eliot’s dropped first but he made sure to keep it half hidden from Alice. She had settled way below her qualifications and standards - for  _ family _ \- because she had more loyalty in her pinkie finger than Eliot had in his whole body. He let that fact sink in, allowed it to raise his already supremely high opinion of the woman beside him, and then pushed it aside. He was not going to think about that. Just like he wasn’t going to think about how he could hear that red-headed woman’s laughter over  _ every other _ voice echoing across the loud as fuck bar. How could he still hear her?

With little finesse, he turned and surveyed the place and was able to see the grouping of people surrounding the pool tables far in the back corner. Eliot could see people he recognized, faces only slightly changed but ones he knew well - people that (he refused to admit) he’d love to catch up with. Even Penny was over there leaning against the wall and chatting someone up that looked a lot like either Josh Hoberman or Travis Orloff-Diaz. He couldn’t tell through the haze of liquor and smoke. 

“Do you want to go over there?” Alice asked, a smug smile in her words.

“No, I don’t want to go over there,” Eliot said, steady and without argument.

Alice grabbed his arm and helped heave him up off his seat. “We’re going over there.” 

With a surprising amount of strength (or maybe there was something to everyone’s comments on his appearance) Alice dragged him through the crowd, tethered by their hands interlocked with Eliot trailing behind as if floating. He was tall enough he could keep his glass high above the boisterous crowd. The small sea of people dissipated closer to the billiard portion of the bar, the large pool tables creating spaces that broke up the couples and groups shouting at each other over the music. They sauntered up, armed with fresh martinis (less olives this time), and let Alice break the ice as she barreled into the middle of the group. 

“Mind if we join you?” she said, keeping her hand clasped in Eliot’s and sliding up next to the people who would be most likely to talk to them. Penny rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, gave Eliot a nod and a knowing smirk that said he’d expected to see him a lot sooner than this. Quentin either didn’t see him or was pretending he wasn’t here, because he didn’t turn to them, but Josh Hoberman whipped around full-kilter and Eliot wasn’t surprised one bit to find him blazed out of his mind. He would be too, if he still lived there.

“Holy shit, you weren’t kidding!” At Eliot’s easy smile, thank you alcohol, Josh launched himself at the man. Did he just look like a hugger? Or did they really hug this much back in High School? Eliot honestly couldn’t remember, most of his quality time with Josh was spent alongside Kady under the bleachers during their daily ‘smoke break’ between third and fourth period. He had to be high out of his mind to get through A.P. U.S. History in the Midwest. But Josh was probably, honestly happy to see him - so Eliot would take what he would get. The man’s whites were sunburn red, and he reeked of reefer, but it was definitely more of a welcome home than the scent of dirt and hay that wafted from every other corner of the town. “Dressed to kill too, my man, very nice. You shopping the same stores Fogg does for Penny?” 

To his credit, Penny rolled his eyes and mumbled  _ I wish _ as he drained his own drink. Eliot just bit the inside of his cheek from saying something too scathing. His feud with Quentin had set his default reaction somewhere closer to offensive than cheeky. 

“No, this one is a custom number thanks to a weekend with too much gin and an unnecessary amount of Netflix,” he drawled conversationally. Josh looked confused, Penny looked amused, and Alice was keeping determinedly stoic. Eliot took a careful breath and let it out heavily. “I made it. I design clothes now,” he told Josh, who blinked owlishly behind his glasses and took an extra minute to connect the dots through the haze of weed fogging his brain. 

He nodded,  _ very  _ high, and tried to look a little sheepish. “You know, now that you mention it, I think I heard that. Yeah, I definitely knew that.” 

“You have any of that left?” Eliot asked, half serious and impressed Josh found something that would knock him half of his ass. The man’s blood had to run green with how often he smoked. 

“Oh, hell yeah, of course,” he said immediately, digging a blunt out of his pocket and handing it over. “Bet you need it more than I do.” Ouch. Eliot leveled a look at him as he rifled through his own jacket pocket for his cigarette case. “Wouldn’t smoke that in here though-”

“Ted would tan my hide, I know,” Eliot smirked, the turn of phrase falling from his lips before he could stop it. Swallowing back how Ted wouldn’t hurt a fly, but his old man wouldn’t have had a problem making up for it on that end. He pushed that to a different corner of his mind, compartmentalizing like a fucking pro this fine evening, and instead his gaze fell over Josh’s shoulder. His full attention turned to Quentin and his date tucked into the corner, closed off from the group purposefully. All he could see was Q’s back and shoulders, leaning in to the tell the woman something that had her grinning and showing all her prominent teeth. “So, how have things been with you two? I already know about Penny’s ex-”

Penny glowered, still not having said a word yet, but Josh burst out a laugh that might have been a bit too loud. Eliot’s ears were already ringing, so he really couldn’t tell. “That’s right! You can be part of our club now, divorced and disgruntled.”

“Disgruntled? You?” Eliot pointed out. “You haven’t been disgruntled a day in your life, Hoberman.”

“Nah I just self medicate,” Josh pointed out.

“Don’t we all.” 

“My ex-wife has seen me disgruntled,” Josh defended, and Eliot still didn’t believe him. He looked to Penny for confirmation but the man was like a fucking sphinx. “She got custody so I don’t get to see my kids except when I make it to the city, which isn’t often.”

Eliot paused with his drink halfway to his lips. “You have kids?”

“Yep, two of them,” he whipped out his phone and was flashing poorly taken camera pics not a second later. They were cute kids, didn’t look a whole lot like Josh but there were a few similarities. Alice was huddled close under Eliot’s arm so she could see as well. Even Penny was leaning over to look, silently wanting an update of his own.

“Emily has gotten so big!” she cooed, and Eliot hummed noncommittal. Josh was too stoned to give too much away, but it had to hurt not living anywhere near his kids. They were close enough for everyone to know who they were, for Alice to know their names. He didn’t quite know what to say that wouldn’t just make the situation worse. A divorce had to be so messy with kids, or financial issues like Penny had. “It feels like forever since I’ve seen them.”

“Well, I haven’t really brought them down here since Travis’s funeral,” Josh said a little more soberly. “There’s not much for them to do here, plus it’s such a long drive-”

“Travis?” Eliot asked, voice far away and stunned. It didn’t sound like his own voice. “You mean Kady’s brother, Travis?” How many people had fucking  _ died _ since he’d left? His dad, Alice’s dad,  _ Travis _ ? He was only two years younger than them, he couldn’t be.

“Oh, shit. Did no one tell you?” Josh said, oblivious to Eliot’s widened eyes and carefully still stance. Penny finally pushed himself off the wall to close the circle they had created while talking. 

“I thought Kady had told you,” Penny added almost too quiet to hear. “When you saw her that first night.”

“No.” They had been too busy arguing, she had mentioned Travis - but it didn’t get beyond his name. Memories shut down before they got too lost in them. Eliot couldn’t believe they did that, that Quentin had done that. He knew and he’d done that to her. 

Alice folded her arm around his again and took his hand once more. “He OD’d a couple years ago. It’s why Kady got into law enforcement, she’s the one that found him.”

“I had no idea,” Eliot muttered, those dark thoughts swirling around in his half-tipsy mind. He wasn’t sure he could compartmentalize that. Not Travis. He couldn’t do it, he had to divert before that train of thought ran straight off the track. “Anything else I’ve missed?” 

He was half joking, but Josh thought about it for all of two seconds before blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

“Penny’s on his second wife, does that count?” Eliot turned very sharply to look at Penny, who had failed to mention that part when they’d talked about his divorce at the bank that day. “Where is she again?”

“Mumbai,” Penny ground out, glaring at Josh. “Thanks for airing out my business, Hoberman.” 

“I didn’t know it was a secret!” 

Eliot wasn’t even hearing them anymore, wasn’t able to feel Alice’s arm woven through the crook of his own. Because he needed to keep his state of mind far away from this conversation - he needed a distinct distraction. His eyes had landed on Q and his date once again, and what he saw made him clench his jaw. That would do it. “Excuse me,” he said, not sure if it fell on deaf ears and also not caring. Because that was  _ it _ . He couldn’t take it anymore. Q was basically using his date as his eyes, with the way her gaze darted to Eliot’s face way more often that it should. He was having her tell him what Eliot was doing so he wouldn’t have to look himself, how  _ middle school _ , and Eliot was so  _ tired  _ of the antics already. They weren’t fucking teenagers anymore. So Eliot took his martini (half gone, was that his third one or his fourth?) and waltzed right up to slide in next to the corner lovebirds. Quentin about jumped out of his skin. “Sorry, don’t mind me.”

“I do kind of mind,” Quentin started, glowering, but his date’s eyes were  _ dancing _ . The feisty redhead was all bright eyes and wicked smiles - this woman ate drama for breakfast. El knew the type, very well.  _ Prepare to eat your fill, honey _ . “Hello, you must be Quentin’s  _ hot _ date,” Eliot purred out, smooth and taunting all at the same time.

“Poppy,” she grinned, offering her hand. Eliot took it and kissed it instead of shaking it.

“I’m Eliot. Quentin’s snooty bitch of a husband who lives in New York-”

“Oh  _ wow _ , this is better than I thought,” Poppy practically cackled. 

“-whom he refuses to divorce, even though - I’m engaged to another man.” It was the first time he said it out loud in Quentin’s presence, even though the man had all but accused him of it that afternoon. But to hear Eliot say it so quick and snarky to a complete stranger, wearing the ring in plain view, Q looked struck dumb. But, to be fair, he started this.

Poppy snagged his hand and looked at the ring herself. Eliot was used to the gesture by that point, every time he showed his ring it was apparently an invitation to hold his hand and inspect the quality of his bejeweled fingers. “It’s like one of the three rings given to the Elves, you’re certainly tall enough. I love it. Harry Winston?” she asked, more knowledgeable than Eliot had expected.

“Tiffany’s.”

“Damn, well done,” she smirked. 

“Thank you,” Eliot chuckled back and turned to Quentin. “I like her.”

“Poppy!” Q interrupted, snapping and getting both of their attention. “Would - would you mind getting us another rough while I speak to Eliot  _ alone _ ?” He’d tried to correct his tone, to something more amicable though Eliot could practically see steam pouring out his ears.

“Sure,” she chirped, getting up from her seat but stopping and spinning back around to point at Eliot. “Vodka, or gin?”

“ _ Poppy _ , I meant you and me!” Q blanched.

“Oh, he’s staying. I need to see what happens next,” her mischievous smirk was enough to brighten Eliot’s own expression. Oh yes, he really liked her.

“Grey goose, darling,” he winked at her, catching sight of Alice back by Josh and Penny stifling laughter behind her hands and Eliot winked at her too before he went back to taunting Q. “She could be a keeper, dear. I love a good shit stirrer, and she has a good hold on the spoon let me tell you-”

Quentin grabbed Eliot by the sleeve and dragged him further into the corner, far away from prying eyes. But he couldn’t seem to form words, even when he turned back around to face Eliot’s expectant stare. He was  _ pissed _ , and Eliot couldn’t help but think ‘ _ good’ _ . Not only did it make him feel a million times better, but he needed Quentin pissed enough to try and run him out of town. He was so tired of playing games. 

Sure, he’d been the one doing most of the games and theatrics - but even small time stage plays had intermissions. 

Anything that he could possibly say in that moment seemed so far out of Quentin’s grasp Eliot almost felt bad, but seriously - crashing his date threw him more for a loop than rearranging his house? Talk about a plot twist. Eliot just crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, making a slight motion with his hand for Q to just get out with it already. But he couldn’t, whatever he wanted to come across apparently didn’t exist in the English language. Eliot threw his hands up and sighed in annoyance, and Quentin shushed him and glared. In the end they ended up just flailing and making aborted motions at each other for a solid few minutes - and really it was amazing that was a whole conversation in itself.  _ Just out with it already!  _ **_I can’t even articulate it, I’m so mad at you!_ ** _ Good, looks like I’m finally getting my point across!  _ **_God, I can’t stand you!_ ** _ That makes two of us, babe. Why do you always choose the hard way? Why are you like this?!  _ **_WHY ARE_ ** **_YOU_ ** **_LIKE THIS!?_ ** Etcetera, etcetera. 

It probably said something they had a full on argument in silence after seven years and it somehow still made sense.

Q finally just threw his hands up, snagged a pool cue off the wall, and went up to where he and Josh and Penny had been about to start a game. Racking up the balls like Eliot hadn’t just come over and derailed everything, a scowl drawing his mouth down in the corners and knitting his eyebrows together. Eliot merely sighed, retrieved his martini glass, then returned to Quentin’s side and sat on the side of the pool table. He set his martini glass between the white cue ball and the diamond shaped formation, right in the way of Q’s lined up shot. Extra as fuck.

“Why do you make me be mean to you?” Eliot asked, petulantly. A threat laced between his words. He was  _ really _ only just getting started, and he hadn’t even come to the bar to mess with the other man.

“ _ Eliot _ ,” Q warned, but Eliot barreled on.

“No, really, I mean it. It’s just -  _ so _ insanely easy to embarrass you in front of your date and your friends. Why, oh why do you test me like this?” Eliot drawled out, skewering another olive from his glass without removing it from the pool table. 

“Hey, what the hell man,” Penny interjected, louder than he’d been all night. “We were your friends, too.” His tone was no longer joking or conversational, and the sentiment was reflected in Josh and Alice’s faces. Even Julia looked a little taken aback, and Eliot hadn’t even seen her come over and take a seat beside Alice.

The past tense doesn’t escape Eliot’s notice, and he felt his whole body go tense as a line began to draw itself in the sand. He could feel it, the otherness, being outside the group - he was intimately aware of how that felt. It was the perfect summarization of his entire relationship with his brothers. He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say a word, just grabbed his martini glass and settled himself into a tall barstool chair with a back beside Alice -  _ not _ sulking. Alice was looking at him but he couldn't bring himself to look back. 

Out of the corner of his eye he could make out Penny pulling his asshole over-exaggerated face that he would swear until his dying breath he didn’t do. The man was so expressive for someone who’s default was deadpan. Eliot did his best to block him out, which wasn’t hard he was still very tipsy, and he busied himself eating the olives out of his drink and tipping his chair back to balance precariously on the back two legs. He was tall enough he could do shit like that without really trying too hard.

“Hey, Josh,” Penny said, loud enough for all to hear in the slightly awkward absence of chatter. “You know what I’ve been thinking about?” 

Josh gets on board  _ way _ too fast for someone as high as he was. “What’s that, Penny?”

“Oh, this will be good,” Eliot muttered darkly, so only Alice and Julia could hear him. 

“I’m thinking of our senior psychology final and that question we never got to answer.”

Quentin’s eyes went wide the same time Eliot’s did, locking eyes with him and his mouth parted in shock, Alice tensed up prepared to spring from her seat, but the liquor had gotten to  _ all _ of them by that point. Eliot was three or four martinis in, it had definitely hit him too hard and he couldn’t move fast enough, could barely gasp out a “ _ no _ ”. 

Penny’s grin was feral and wide. “Does a tree make a sound when it falls in the forest?” 

“Let’s find out.”

It was a game, or more a challenge, that they used to attempt on the regular way back when. Played it for  _ years _ and got everyone in on it at one point or another. It really all boiled down to two facts and one incident. Eliot was a tall mofo. All limbs, and reflexes like a cat, but he was also a heavy drinker - and notorious practical joker  _ all _ through middle and high school. After one fateful night, where Penny fell victim and ended up flat on his ass in a mud bank, he swore vengeance; and ever since he’d been trying to get a one up on the taller man. A swipe at his legs, chairs with loosened nails, strategic shoves and shoulder bumps, anything and everything to get that man to fall on his ass. But they never  _ once _ got Eliot Waugh to trip over those long-ass spider legs, because he had been so  _ good _ at catching himself. Was very obnoxious about it, too.

But tonight would be the night that Penny tasted sweet victory, because after seven years and too much shit to name in the past three days - Eliot’s guard had finally fallen down.

Penny snatched his martini out of his hands at the same time Josh gave the support between the chair legs one final push, tipping the chair so far back the legs slid out from under Eliot and sent the tall barstool down to clatter against the ground. With Eliot still in it. The sound echoed through the bar almost as loudly as the cheer that followed. Penny’s face lit up like he’d been saving seven years of Christmases just for this moment, hands thrown up and high-fiving Josh like the dumbass guys they were. God, Eliot hadn’t missed this part - the stupid painful shit they pulled on each other just because they were bored in the middle of nowhere. His whole body was still feeling the ricochets.

“HOLY SHIT I did it! I can’t believe that fucking worked, you’re rusty as hell Waugh!” 

Okay, fine. Eliot got the message. Penny was trying to knock him down a peg, the pointed look he was sending his way through his victory taunts said it loud and clear. He was starting to go too far, enough that even Penny was interfering. Eliot let them haul him to his feet and dust him off over-dramatically like the assholes they were, and refused to turn to look at Alice and Julia giggling, clapping and pink in the face from it. Nostalgia blurring everything for the people surrounding him. But not for Eliot.

He could take a hit, it wouldn’t be the first time. In fact, he was  _ glad _ he was going too far, because the more he played it up the more he was starting to feel like everyone knew something he didn’t. Like they were all on in something, and he didn’t like any of his ideas that rose to mind.

“Just like old times, huh?” Josh said, laughing as if he didn’t just near give Eliot spinal injuries. They used to do some very stupid and dangerous shit, so yeah -

“Just like old times,” Eliot said through a bitter smile. Aware no one could see it for what it was.

He let them have their little victory song and dance, sliding into a new seat beside Alice and taking a sip of her martini - not quite sure where his ended up. She gave Eliot a small smile, like what just happened somehow absolved him being a dick to Quentin a few moments ago, and also suspiciously didn’t say another word to him. 

Even though he had seen her speaking quietly to Julia, in that constant stream of words where she could barely find time to take a breath,  _ just _ before he’d sat down. Eliot knew what it looked like, had been on the receiving end more times than he could count, and there was a lot that Alice could fit into a very short amount of time. But it was the resonating silence that followed, cushioned by the whitenoise of the bar, that had his spidey-senses tingling. She took her drink back to sip at, sharing it back and forth like a milkshake, and caught him staring at her. “What?”

“You tell me,” he said back, eyes searching.

“Not everyone is out to get you, Waugh,” Penny said, chalking up his own pool cue. “Now you just sit there on that bruised, boney ass and watch me teach Coldwater how to lose at pool.” 

“What, no doubles?” Josh whined, his own pool cue going slack in his hands. The girls weren’t playing, sexist bullshit unconsciously ingrained in all of them and Eliot rolled his eyes. Fucking Indiana. 

“Well you see, I’m not really an observational man anymore,” he said, standing up and taking one of the longer ques from the wall as well. “I like to put some skin in the game.”

“Do you even remember how to play?” Penny snarked. 

“Care to find out?” Eliot chimed right back, chalking up the end and daring him to say something. He didn’t know his life, he didn’t know he wasn’t winning billiard championships on the weekend in New York. He wasn’t, but Penny didn’t know that. “I’ll partner with Josh.” They accepted his terms, though Quentin was full on scowling at him from across the table, and Alice was looking at him questionably. He shrugged at her, to hide his real sentiments. He didn’t want to sit next to Alice while she was keeping secrets from him, or anywhere near Julia’s piercing stare. He didn’t want to give any of them the chance to dissect him and figure out his best angles to poke at. He wasn’t here for a stroll down memory lane, he wasn’t here to be convinced he had to stay. He wasn’t here for any of them. Not even Alice.

On a side table he found his martini glass, Penny had drank it. Dick. But he left him one last olive and Eliot popped it in his mouth before that could be snatched away too. Then he ordered more shots, “Let’s make this interesting,” he drawled, leveling a serious look at Penny on the other side of the table. He could also see Quentin watching him carefully (Poppy returned to his side with the forgotten round of drinks), and his blood began to simmer hotly as he stored his anger for fuel.

Eliot.  _ Hated _ . Being. Played. With. He was supposed to be the one doing the playing, he was the one that was supposed to be doing and saying what he could to get what he needed and then getting out of there. As fast as his car could take him. The fact they thought so  _ little _ of him - that he would return to Indiana (when he’d sworn he never would; very publicly, that had been some of his final words to many of them), and could be so easily swayed? 

They were just like his mom, just like Dan, acting like he was fucking playing a part up there in New York instead of  _ here _ . Playing dress up. Like everything he’d worked and strived for, his life he’d created and the person he’d built himself up to be, wasn’t real. Like he was going to come back to his senses and suddenly, with a click of his heels, be right back there beside all of them, drinking like a fish every night in a dingy dive bar in the middle of nowhere. 

Fine, if that’s what they thought - then  _ fine _ . Back to his original plan. He was not going to let anyone get to him, fuck this town and everyone in it. He needed that bill of divorcement, and he would get Q and everyone to see him for the lost cause he was if it was the last thing he did. Even if he had to burn every fucking bridge from here to the East Coast. 

The shots came, and Eliot  _ drank _ . 

\--


	9. viii. The Bar (Part II: The Line Crossed)

-

The whole world was reduced to a haze, fuzzy and warm and distant in that way where touch wasn’t quite connected with movement. But it was so _fun_ to go swimming through it, moving about as if floating through the dimly lit space inside the bar. Time was an illusion, and Eliot found he was far beyond considering it as a relevant concept. 

Under yellowed lighting and surrounded by the scents of smoke and spilled beer, the game was still on, stretching far into the night. Empty shot glasses lined the sides of the pool table, the jukebox had been abandoned but Eliot was still hearing pop songs in his head that he hummed to every once in a while, and everyone was _drunk_. They’d all been taking shots, per Eliot’s request and rules of the game, but he’d drank about double what everyone else had. Eliot had also gotten progressively more snarky and hostile with his commentary, giggling to himself and missing Margo so terribly in that moment - she would have been the perfect wingwoman here. When she wanted to be mean, she could school anyone. Eliot had learned much from her over the years. 

Wavering only slightly, eyes near crossing as he focused, Penny did his best to line up the shot for the solid green ball next to a corner pocket. It should have been an easy shot. But he’d been trying to keep up with Waugh, like an idiot (he was well aware) and he did _not_ understand how the other man still had a functioning liver. Where was it all _going_ ? Before he could take the shot, Eliot slammed into the side of the pool table next to him, leaning far over into his space and giggling as he near knocked him over. In his face, drunk as a skunk, and saying his name over and over like Penny couldn’t hear him. “Penny, _Penny,_ concentrate Penny,” he was half singing as he laughed and Penny’s traitor face cocked up in a smile that showed too much teeth. “Don’t _blow_ this shot, Penny. It’s not very gentlemanly.” Penny does not laugh, he won’t give that asshole the satisfaction.

He took the shot, and scratched so hard it basically left a mark in the green felt table. The whole audience booed and awed, including Eliot but more mockingly. Grinning like the little shit he was.

It was late, closing in on last call, and anyone left at that hour decided to watch the guys play their drunk-noodle-pool-game as Eliot liked to dub it. All four players were stumbling by then, it was hilarious to witness, if a little tedious because _no one_ could line up a shot to save their life. Penny tried to glare at Eliot, who stuck his tongue out at him like a child, and took yet _another_ shot of whiskey even though it wasn’t his turn. Technically Penny was supposed to be taking it. 

“So, Coldwater,” Penny said instead, shaking his head at Eliot and letting him drink his shot for him. More power to him. “You gonna divorce this mess, or what?” 

Quentin was probably the most sober, he hadn’t missed many shots or calls, and he had watched Eliot the entire time. Closely. So Eliot, doing the only reasonable thing in his annoyed rage, drank until he couldn’t feel the other’s eyes boring into the side of his face as they played pool. “He’s waited seven years-” Eliot almost choked on the second half of the shot, he was getting to the point he couldn’t take it all in one go without gagging.

“- _Oh_ , seven years, Q? Is that what it’s been? _Seven years_? Remind me how long it’s fucking been again.”

“-he can wait a few more days. It won’t kill him.” Quentin finished strong, tuning Eliot out like it was his day job. Not a word Eliot spoke phased him. It was both fascinating and aggravating. 

“Unfortunately,” Julia grumbled. Kady pinched her side and gave her a very stern yet loving ‘play nice’ look, and holy shit. Eliot didn’t even know when Kady had appeared, dressed in civilian clothes with her wild black mane of hair down and tousled very nicely. He liked that style. He should take a picture and keep it for the stylists at his next show. But seriously, he had no idea _when_ she had shown up, or when she draped herself around Julia like a well worn sweater. They looked good together.

“ _OH_ !” He gasped, the dots finally connecting in the wasted sea of thoughts. “Oh, wow! I did _not_ guess that.” So far off, he hadn’t thought too much on it but that would not have been his first guess. “Jesus, Alice you missed the fucking boat on that one. By like a mile.” He lulled his head to the side to look over at her, not sure how he ended up at their table again but it had felt right. Sure enough there Alice sat, and she did not say a word. He had meant it as a joke, wide smile very at ease on his face and all but ribbing her with his elbow. But it was very obviously not taken that way. “Swing and a miss,” he mumbled, and took _another_ shot - or finished the half that was in his hand. He wasn’t sure anymore. It purely out of habit, he swore. Shit, how many was that now? Should he stop? Who’s turn was it?

He turned back around on his stool to the wrath of Quentin’s hard stare, on his stupid - gorgeous face. Wow, he really grew into his jaw, didn’t he? “S’not going to make a difference, y’know,” he answered the other man’s previous statement. As if he had just said it, although Eliot was pretty sure it had been a couple minutes. Whatever. “Don’t know why you’re bothering waiting. Nothing’s gonna change.”

“You never know,” Josh tried to add in. He had to have the spins after all the weed and whiskey. “You don’t know what Q has been up to, might be interested t’find out tha-”

“No, it’s okay, Josh,” Quentin said, still giving Eliot that dead serious stare. That said he knew what Eliot was trying to do, and it was not going to work. No matter how much of an ass Eliot made of himself. Eliot just smirked back, raising the empty shot glass in his hand like a toast. Challenge _way_ passed accepted, sweetheart. “Eliot can think what he wants, he made up his mind about us a long time ago.” 

Eliot just sneered in response, an expression he couldn’t even feel - his face completely numb - and he mumbled something like “ _some_ things will never change.” And he was aware it didn’t make much sense, but he was also way passed caring. Too far in the hole to crawl out now. Quentin’s challenging stare reminded his alcohol-ravaged brain why he’d gotten this wasted in the first place. Back on track.

He stayed blessedly silent while Josh took his turn, they only had one stripe left and then they could go for the 8. Eliot, and everyone else, fully expected him to scratch. But he did one worse. He hit the wrong damn ball, and sank the final solid that Penny had been trying to hit before. Eliot groaned out as everyone else did something similar or laughed at his mistake. 

“Like I said,” Eliot went on, loudly, “nothing changes. Couldn’t ever get your balls in the right pocket, Hoberman.” 

“Fuck, does he have an off switch somewhere, Q?” Julia spit out, glaring at Eliot openly from the confines of Kady’s embrace. She looked mighty cozy for someone spitting venom. 

“ _Not anymore_ ~” Eliot sing-songed, staring openly at Quentin as he did. Because Quentin is _still_ staring back, picking him apart, looking for cracks. Well joke’s on him, Eliot was so wasted he couldn't’ stop if he tried. Sitting just behind Q, his forgotten date was watching everything like she needed a bowl of popcorn to complete the experience. Eliot decided he did like her, they would have gotten along great. Circumstances pending. 

Everyone else was watching the two of them like they needed a bomb squad on standby, and Eliot could honestly say he didn’t hate that. He was finally, _fucking finally_ , getting under Quentin’s skin. Tonight might be the night. 

“Alright, Q,” Josh is beside Quentin now, tucked in close like he’s giving him a pep talk - which, what the hell? Josh had been Eliot’s partner! “So - it’s all down to you. You have the power to end this-”

“HEY! He sank that ball on purpose! _Sabotage!_ ” Eliot shouted in mock outrage.

“-You’re in the boss battle, one more hit and he’s down. And we can call go home. Just like senior year, final question for the Mid-Indiana Quiz Masters. You aced that and we partied into the night, you can do this!” Josh told him, and their little group of nerds remembered that night well. Fondly, even - because they had all indeed soaked a river sandbar in cheap vodka and pot smoke. It had been a great night, a great victory; for the most part. “You remember that, El?” Josh taunted, trying for a jab.

Not knowing the truth, when he said it. But Eliot did. He saw his opening, at the way Quentin’s jaw had tightened and his eyes lost some of their luster. Not knowing. Not expecting Eliot to cross that line, because he wouldn’t do that - Eliot was hurt and could be mean, but he wasn’t _cruel_. 

_Wrong_.

Quentin had answered the final question correctly, won them the championship, but he’d been a shaking nervous wreck while it happened. They had won - but at a cost. The surge of serotonin that had resulted hit with elation, and dropped like a fucking brick; his clincial depression had still be ravaging him in his teen years. Chemical warfare in every corner of his brain. He hadn’t learned to cope, yet. Everyone knew about the victory bash, but not what happened after. 

“Of course I remember, how could I forget,” Eliot said, no filter, no emotion. “That’s the night we had to get Q admitted, on suicide watch.” The cut of chatter was deafening. “Again.” It had been the worst one, to date, and a small part of Eliot’s brain that still cared about the other wondered if Quentin had been admitted at all since he’d left. 

Quentin’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates. Mouth parted in shock, not believing - but also very much believing what had just happened. Eliot was still throwing everything in his arsenal, and this was a big hitter. “Sure, just make that public. That’s fine-” he’s so close to laughing it pained Eliot, no matter how much it didn’t reflect on his face. 

But everyone else wasn’t as quiet about Eliot’s statement.

“Jesus, Eliot!” Kady swore at him, also wide-eyed and glaring. Julia was speechless, her mouth also dropped open.

“What is _wrong_ with you!?” 

Eliot took the momentum and fucking _ran with it_.

“Well, why not? It’s not like anyone can keep a secret around here,” he went on, taking a long draw of a beer that (probably) didn’t even belong to him. “We’re all nosy, gossipy bitches who know _all_ about everyone’s business. There’s not one corner of this fucking town that can hide anything. The only one able to keep a secret seems to be Alice.” His tone turned light and taunting as he kept talking, a fuse slowly burning away about to detonate whatever it was attached to. The bomb squad metaphor was very fitting, now that he contemplated it. Very suddenly Alice was standing in front of him, taking the beer bottle out of his hands, and blocking him off from the rest of the room.

“Eliot, you’ve proven your point,” Alice said, trying to convey something with a look alone - but Eliot was so drunk he couldn’t decipher it. Could barely look up at her long enough for her face to come into focus. He was still _very_ sure she had been talking with the others, conspiring but playing the best friend card to try and figure out his angle - the best way to keep him here. To guilt him into staying.

“What, you don’t think they all talk about your mom behind their hands, or _you_ \- how _crazy_ you are to give up your entire life for her? For _family_. Take it from me, family is not worth it. Not worth beans.” The words come spitting out of him, a rage he’d been keeping buckled down for too long coming out to play while he was being irrationally angry. 

“Beans?” Alice parroted, not able to keep up with what was coming out of his mouth. 

Then Eliot laughed, out right and sudden. “It’s so EASY, too. Everyone talks shit, Alice. Everyone.”

“Not everyone, El,” Alice tried to defend, but her words didn’t rise to the occasion. Nor did it sway Eliot. All he could see was Alice and Julia trying to hide their chatter earlier, shutting up the moment he sat down within ear shot. How they thought he wouldn’t notice, too wrapped up in his feud with Quentin. Eliot noticed _everything_. No one was tricking him in anything. Not even-

“ _Poor_ little Alice, lost in life now that she’s given up her grandmaster plan,” he sneered, unapologetic and words sharp despite his intoxicated state. “Wondering if she’ll end up all alone just like her mother. Alone and crazy - everything she suffers from is inherited, we all know it. Town full of dumb hicks can still use wedMD - and there’s many first signs of insanity. Like giving up on living for yourself. Barely getting by on what you can scrape together.” It was insane she had given up everything for her mom, who she despised more than anyone else, and Eliot was pretty sure that if nothing else then what he said would at least snap her out of it. Family wasn’t worth it. “But it won’t matter, I guess, cause _we’re all mad here_ ,” he giggled, not unlike the Cheshire cat, wide and insane and fading in and out. He could picture himself disappearing and reappearing with only his designer clothes staying behind as he laughed. Everyone in this whole county was just bat shit, they really were all mad. Mad as hatters. “Right, Alice? Alice?” Eliot finally focused long enough to see Alice was gone. Left without a word, an expression he couldn’t quite remember or forget burned into his mind, and he might have seen a swish of black skirt out the side door.

And then Eliot was laughing again, so hard he snorted his drink he didn’t remember picking up or taking a draw from. Because Alice was _gone_ , and all he can do was laugh.

Because fuck him, right?

“Come on!” He called after his long gone friend, ex-friend, he wasn’t sure. Voice echoing off the wooden and tin ceiling, no one else was talking now. “I’m right, though! Right?” He turned, searching for something until he caught sight of who he was looking for. “SARAH! SEEERA! Another round! This one’s on me.”

A hand came down on his shoulder, heavy and warm, and Eliot managed to turn even more. A twisted posture to match his twisted soul. Ted was standing there, looking at him with such resounding disappointment - and _knowing_ \- that it hit Eliot deep. All the way through the haze of booze.

“I think you’ve had about enough, son.” 

That’s when Eliot knew it, knew he finally hit rock bottom. Scraped the bottom of the barrel and licked it with his tongue, because he could not stoop any lower. Could not make it any worse. Not if Ted was looking at him like that.

Now they had to let him go.

The twitch of a smile, sad and devastatingly accepting, flirted at the side of Eliot’s mouth. He couldn’t feel that either. He knew it had to be in his eyes, though, because he couldn’t control his face. Couldn’t stop the expression or the burn of tears, but only Ted could see him dead on. He would be the only one to know, and be able to see what Eliot had done on purpose. As well as how he planned to keep on doing it, in the worst possible ways.

“Y’know what, you’re _right_ ,” Eliot spit out, the syllables dragged up his throat like broken glass, but they sound true to the anger he was aiming for. Even if it didn’t match the look in his eyes as he stared right back into Ted Coldwater’s face. One last secret, what could it hurt. But it was easy to conjure forth, easier than he’d thought it would be; because deep, _deep_ down - he was done. This was all he had left, so here went nothing. For all the chips. The snarl that crawled up his face was drawn from that same place, and he let it fucking loose. On the one man who deserved it the least. “I had _had._ _Enough._ ” 

Something sparked and spread through the few remaining people still in the bar. The ones who knew him before, could tell he was about to go nuclear, rose from their seats - but Eliot could not be stopped.

“I mean, FUCK, how do you people live like this!”he shouted, not holding anything back. “Live with yourselves! Rotting away in this _fucking_ sinkhole-” 

“Alright that’s it, that’s it.” Kady was up, untangling herself from Julia, and she and Penny were there prying him up off the pool table he was lounging against. Quentin had materialized from nowhere, and was pulling him along out the door as he continued to shout, obscene and terrible things to anyone who could hear.

“There’s a whole ass WORLD out there that has nothing to do with fucking CORN, or BEER, or the SHIT we have to rake into the damn ground. You can still get out! Save yourselves you worthless _fucks_!” and then the cool summer night air bitch slapped him in the face and the heavens were stretched out above him. A small reprieve despite the fury still burning through him; years and years of rage spewing forth at anyone close enough to be in the line of fire. 

“I liked him better when he was just trying to divorce you,” Kady ground out beside him, to Quentin not to Eliot. He had been removed from the equation, even as they dragged his drunk ass out through the front double doors.

On his other side came Quentin’s voice. “He’s still trying, he just hit self-destruct as a last act of desperation. Same shit, different day.” A scoff also sounded in reaction, and it was right behind him so for a moment Eliot thought it had come out of his own mouth - but Penny was still following them to make sure they got Eliot out. 

“You need any help with him?” Kady asked.

“No, I got him.”

“You ain’t got _shit_ , Coldwater,” Eliot seethed at him, stumbling backwards when Kady let him go to retreat back inside the bar. Quentin took him by the arm again and began dragging him towards the parking lot. 

“I can’t believe you did that, Eliot,” Quentin said. So quiet and full of indignation Eliot could tell he hadn’t just crossed the line. He’d trampled and did a fucking Irish Riverdance on it. “You can’t treat people who give a shit about you like something you’ve fucking stepped in-”

“You asked for this!” Eliot lashed out.

“I did _what_ ?! How is this MY fault?!” Quentin shouted, but Eliot ripped his arm out of his grip and was trying to get his bearings under the ancient flood lights. His jacket was half off one shoulder, unbuttoned and so were a few buttons around his throat - tie nowhere to be found, and his hair had lost it’s polished style, starting to frizz and curl wildly in his frustration. He must have been pulling at it again, running long fingers through the perfectly styled locks to help him center himself. There was no finding that center now. Fuck, he still couldn’t feel his face. “You show up here, steal my money and fuck up my house, then insult our friends - and my _dad_ , acting like you’re somehow _better_ than them!”

“I AM BETTER THAN THEM!” Eliot shouted back, so drunk the lie didn’t even feel like one. Didn’t sound like one. He can’t tell if Quentin believed him yet. “And you stole my pen, give it back!” It took the other man a long moment of angered confusion to realize he meant back at the house; it was becoming impossible to follow Eliot’s reasoning, swerving all over the road in his mind. 

“Is that all that matters to you?” Quentin asked, voice stuck back in that aghast near-whisper. “The material parts of it? The money, the labels, the fame and magazine articles - yeah, I saw them,” he interjected at Eliot’s sharp look up in surprise. “It’s pathetic, Eliot, and so fucking sad that you’re _hiding_ behind all this BULLSHIT. Trying so hard to make it seem REAL-”

“OH FUCK YOU, QUENTIN!” Eliot screamed at him. “IT IS REAL, MY _LIFE_ IS REAL! I’M - _fuck_ , I’m going places! Unlike you, sitting in that fucking shrine of a house and wallowing for years. And I’m going to keep going places, going to keep _living my life_ , as soon as I find my fucking keys and get as far away from here as fucking possibl-” he was already patting his pockets looking for the rental keychain - no key, just a hub that unlocked the car when he got close. Luxury cars were a beautiful thing. 

His fingers found the tag and metal loop, immediately fumbled them to the ground, and then Quentin was there snatching them up with a “Oh no you don’t, you’re not driving anywhere.”

“Give me my keys!”

“Doesn’t feel so great, does it?” Quentin had the audacity to grin at him with an insane amount of smugness.

“Damnit, Quentin!” 

“You wouldn’t make it out of the parking lot! After the shit you just pulled the _last_ thing I’m letting you do is kill yourself driving home,” Quentin spat at him, finding a way to calm down as Eliot continued to unravel. “Now go get in my truck, I’ll take you home.”

“Make me!” Eliot spat right back, not prepared for what happened next. 

He did, indeed, make him get into the truck - and it was _not_ sexy that Q could manhandle him now. He was too mad to be aroused. “FUCK! Alright, let me go!” He hollered at the man who had his arm twisted behind his back and another on his ear like he was five years old about to be scolded for the millionth time. He had been a slight problem child, the youngest of four boys had to do desperate things to be noticed nine times out of ten. “ _God,_ you need to get a life outside of here,” he drawled, his own words he’d been screaming in the bar repeating in his drunken mind like a broken record player. That certainly wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass.

“Just shut up, Eliot.” Quentin got him into the truck and slammed the door behind him. The window was cracked open, so Eliot could see Poppy walking out of the bar and up to Quentin’s truck with her hands in her pockets. Her wide, observant eyes still watching their interactions like it was a reality drama on Bravo.

“Guess the date is over?” she asked, all snark and only a little wary. Because that had been a shitshow in there. Full on.

“Yeah, I’m sorry-” Quentin tried to say, hands in his pockets as well and a little hunched over to make himself look more apologetic - if that was possible. He also looked very good, El didn’t blame Poppy one bit for hopping on that train the moment Q had asked her out. He was almost 100% certain he had done that while Eliot was sitting in his living room, or there abouts. Quentin had donned a black button down over his worn jeans, and had pulled his hair back into a low knot during their pool game, it was already spilling out of the hair tie from their slight scuffle. Eliot hadn’t put up that much of a fight, he lacked the ability to do so effectively. Now he just leaned against the doorframe, cheek against the window, watching openly and listening in while he tried to keep the world from spinning too badly. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Poppy said with a smile, only slightly wicked, “that was the best first - and _final_ \- date I could have ever asked for. I live for this shit. Sorry it was such a cluster of you, though.” Quentin just sighed at her words, thankful and annoyed all at once. Eliot could still read him like a damn book.

“Do me one last favor? Follow us to the Waugh farm?” he asked, dropping Eliot’s rental key hub in her hand. It was about the same time that Eliot managed to get a hand on the car door handle, thank _god_ , so he could thrust open the door enough to puke into the dirt and gravel parking lot. 

Q’s head tipped back to the sky with his eyes closed, and he asked so low and quiet only Poppy could really hear him, “Did he get it all out of the truck?”

“Yeah,” Penny said, drawing out the vowels nervously. “But it’s also all up in your tires.”

Quentin groaned and stalked away, aiming for the driver’s side and not even offering Eliot a helping hand. Which, fair - he supposed. “You haven’t thrown up since you were fifteen years old, and you choose now to die of alcohol poisoning.”

“Ha, you ain’t that lucky,” Eliot drawled with a burst of laughter, as he collapsed back into the passenger seat. His words slurring back into an accent he thought he had long forgotten. 

-

The drive was silent. Quentin wasn’t quite sure Eliot was conscious for most of it. But he also found himself far past caring. 

He helped Eliot stumble up to his mother’s house, half gone and giggling - not even sure where he was. It was _not_ a fun time for Quentin to knock on that door and wait for Daniel or Ginny to come answer. Eliot couldn’t even stand up straight, leaving him hanging all over Quentin; his tall, lanky frame was smaller than Quentin remembered - but somehow he still fit into every bend and dip in his own side, molding to him like he was as fluid as the alcohol he’d consumed ad nauseum. 

Daniel opened the door and only looked a little surprised, probably by the hour, not by what was standing in front of him. This wouldn’t have been the first time he’d helped get Eliot home too drunk to stand. 

“Evening, Dan,” Q droned out, nodding to the older man as they passed by him. He kept the door open for them, mouth drawn tight in a grimace that was so dangerous to tipping over to bitter laughter. 

“Evening, Q,” he said back, too polite for his own good. “He going to make it?”

“Probably,” Q answered as he helped Eliot across the living room towards the guest hallway. He’d helped them move in, he knew the layout pretty well. Eliot was too gone to notice. “G’evening, Mrs. Waugh,” he called out to the woman watching them stumble like a sad circus act. She didn’t say anything back, Quentin didn’t blame her; but she did pat his arm and squeezed it lovingly in thanks. “I’ll lock the door on the way out.”

Eliot barely made it through the door, falling backwards into the frame at one point and laughing for the first time without any malice that night. Quentin wasn’t in on the joke, whatever it may be, and his automatic response to smile back was stilted - but Eliot accepted it with a nod and managed one final half-step before he collapsed onto the guest bed. Quentin got his shoes off, tossed his work satchel into the desk chair, and only hesitated a moment before he sat down heavily next to Eliot’s prone form on the bed. The tall man’s knees knocking into Q’s spine as he tried to roll over and failed spectacularly. It was a small bed, and no matter how mad Quentin was at him - it was still so easy to be sitting this close. He hadn’t even realized until moments after. They’d been all up in each other’s space since they were six years old. 

He knew he could leave, should leave, he did more than any decent person would - got him home, got him in bed, his job was done. But there was a part of Quentin that couldn’t go quite yet, even if he couldn’t look at Eliot without getting all kinds of sad and angry all over again. He wasn’t ready to leave yet, not until he was sure the other man wasn’t going to die in his sleep. Backwoods Partying 101: don’t leave someone passed out drunk alone unless they’re on their side and breathing fine. He’d never known anyone who choked on their own vomit in their sleep, but it was one of the first horror stories that got passed around when they were young and just beginning their list of illegal activities. Not much else to do out in the country, after all. 

But Eliot was breathing just fine, so that was a start. His deep, steady breathing was close to falling into a very heavy sleep - maybe just a few more minutes. He could justify a few more minutes.

Christ.

“Why do you do this, El?” Quentin whispered, turning the pen he’d never returned over in his hands. It had been in his back pocket the whole night. The divorce papers were in that work satchel on the chair, he could see a corner of the manila envelope sticking out and Quentin was stuck staring at it in a daze. Falling into an abyss of memories and tragic moments were he realized what Eliot had been up to, so many times in their life; anything that got too hard, or he was too afraid to face, he ran. He ran hard and fast and lit a match as he did so there would be nothing left to look back on and regret. Quentin knew self-destruction when he saw it, he was well acquainted with it on many levels, and one thing he knew for sure - Eliot was self-destructive down to his core. For _years_ , Quentin had held on tight to the hope that one day Eliot would stop destroying everything good and difficult that ever crossed his path, and when he saw that _wasn’t_ the case - he told himself he would go down fighting to make sure El wouldn’t continue to do that. It didn’t have to be with him, no matter how much Quentin still loved him - with all his heart and every bone in his body - he would be _okay_ if… if Eliot would just be happy. He couldn’t keep doing this. “Are you like this back in New York? Do you do this all the time?”

Had he failed Eliot more than he thought, not going back for him sooner?

“N’ver,” Eliot mumbled out, arm over his eyes and slurring his words. “Toobusy.” Quentin just nodded, finding a shred of solace to grasp and keep him there. Hanging by a thread. He needed to think a little bit more, before he drove home. Eliot’s quiet snores made a pleasant, heartbreaking white noise beside him as he did.

Three days ago, he would have done anything to hear that again. 

Eliot had been right. Some things never change.

\--


	10. ix. Whitespire

-

Eliot woke up the following morning, golden sunlight streaming through the thin window curtains so glaringly Eliot hated  _ everything _ , even breathing. He rolled over to avoid the sunbeam directly in his eyes, and instantly regretted it. His whole world was still spinning like the end of a carnival ride, and his stomach revolted at the motion. He lulled his head back to the position it was in before, sun be damned, searching for the spot where his head hurt the least - and instead of soft pillow his face met a stack of stiff papers. It was a very unpleasant sensation, jarring enough to wake him up, and he jolted half upright. Bracing himself on his elbows to squint down at the manila envelope and stack of tabbed papers - and his pen, holding it all together. 

He didn’t need a fresh set of contact lenses to be able to make out Quentin’s scratchy signature next to the blue tabs, right above where his name was printed. He’d signed and initialed in all the correct places, and didn’t bother to leave Eliot a note - but Eliot had gotten the message loud and clear. He had to sit up and really look at the document before he could convince himself it was real. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” he whispered, the night flashing back to him in staccato increments. A record skipping just enough to make out the whole picture. He remembered Alice’s face the most, shocked and hurt and betrayed, as he dropped the bill of divorcement to the floor and hid his face in his hands. Hating himself more than he ever had before. Even when he left Quentin for New York City. With a vicious scrub at his stubbled face, fingers tearing through his hair to try and wake himself up from this nightmare he’d placed himself in, Eliot just exhaled long and slow and accepted what he’d done. He’d fucked up, far beyond what he’d planned in the beginning. None of them had deserved that, he hadn’t even really known where it came from. 

He couldn’t just leave everything like he did; but he didn’t know how he could face anyone after last night.

The walk of shame down the short hallway to the kitchen was almost worse. It was broad daylight, his mom and Dan would have been up for hours - and  _ God, _ Quentin must have taken him home. Brought him inside and propped him up on his side just like they’d been taught to do by upperclassmen. He was not ready to face anyone, but he also needed water. And aspirin. And bread. The holy trinity of battling alcohol poisoning, because Eliot was very sure he was still drunk. At least a little bit. He was still stumbling and supporting himself with arms extended against the wall. 

“Listen, mom - go easy on him. I don’t want to wait another seven years to see him, if he ever comes back after that-” he could hear Daniel’s voice floating from the kitchen, trying to stay quiet but every single sound was ringing through Eliot’s brain like an air raid siren. He could hear a fly buzz against the barn window with his new hangover-induced super powers. 

“Well, look who’s up,” his mom called, trying for cheerful and all but biting her tongue from saying more. He squinted at them, even the sunlight in the kitchen was unbearable, until he saw where all the shiny spotlights were coming from. Daniel turned to him and was dressed head to toe in his thick brown leather rodeo get up, chaps and belt buckle and boots with a cowboy hat the size of Texas in his hands. The metal studs glinting in the morning sun were like machine gun fire to Eliot’s retinas. “Was wondering when you’d manage to drag yourself down here. Breakfast?”

“Jesus Christ, what are you wearing?” Eliot balked, making it to the kitchen island and trying to make sense of the situation. He wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t still dreaming.

“Old Settler’s Days, remember? They’re doing their charity rodeo and I’m in ten events this weekend, gotta rack up some dimes and dollars for Children’s Mercy,” Dan smiled, all gleaming white teeth and like something on the front of western romance novel. Barf.

“You are a living saint,” Eliot droned out, because of course he was. Daniel always wanted to be in real rodeos, travel the country chasing those titles and belt buckles, but the Waugh farm never sleeps and Eliot knew their dad had kept him chained to that tractor all through the golden years when he would have been in prime shape for rodeos. There was also a high probability Dan would have lost every penny he possessed and broken his back in the process, but that was part of the thrill of it - so he would say. “Glad you get to live your dream, big brother. Go wrastle some baby cows for the children.” Eliot had only  _ one _ interest at rodeos, and they were not a welcome subject for discussion he was sure. 

Armed with a glass of water and toast slathered in butter, Eliot collapsed into a chair and tried to consume sustenance without dying in the middle of it. If his mother said anything he didn’t even hear it, but he could physically  _ feel _ Daniel slide up to sit beside him and watch him fail at eating like a functioning human being.

“So,” he started, smug smile radiating in his words although he managed to keep it off his face. “You have fun last night?”

“No, fun would not be the descriptor I’d use,” Eliot said around a bite of toast, not bothering to mind his manners in his hungover state. 

“What time’s your flight? Or did you have to reschedule it again?” he asked, pointedly not asking if Q still hadn’t signed the papers but it was so obvious it was painful.

“I already rescheduled it last night,” he mumbled out, taking careful sips of water so he could keep everything down. He’d thought it was a lost cause last night, so he’d changed his flight  _ again _ before he’d gone to Ted’s Place to meet Alice. “And apparently, I didn’t have to.” Deafening silence was the response that followed, from both Daniel and his mom, but it was so loud it replaced all words. “It’s not until noon tomorrow, I don’t have to leave ‘til the morning.” 

“Oh! You can come to Old Settler’s tonight!” his mother said suddenly, clapping her hands and Eliot winced at the sudden burst of sound. “You can get to see Nate and Alex and the kids while you’re here! I’ll call them up and let them know, this is so exciting!”

“Oh, joy,” Eliot groaned, dropping his last few bites of toast dramatically. He’d suddenly lost his appetite, what little was there to start with.

All the energy deflated from his mother, and Eliot just added that to the pile of guilt eating him away bit by bit. What’s one more disappointed person? “You used to love it as a kid,” she said sadly.

“I used to love a lot of things as a kid.” 

He pried himself up off the chair and retreated to the living room to fall on the couch and pretend the world outside didn’t exist for a few hours. Daniel followed him, because of course he would - putting his hat on his head and fiddling with the cattlehide gloves in his hands.

“You going to go see him?” he asked, quiet so their mom wouldn’t eavesdrop.

“Why would I do that?” Eliot said, the cavern in his chest just deepening and opening up as he sobered up. The full weight of the night before darkening everything, spreading like an ink stain.

“Because you’re miserable, and you need to,” Dan answered plainly. “Whatever happened last night, I know you meant it to cause a meteor impact so you can walk away with the town burning behind you - but you didn’t mean it. Not really.”

“You don’t know that,” Eliot whispered, hating the words as he spoke them

“Yeah, I do.” He sounded so sad, but he still ruffled Eliot’s hair as he left - just as dramatic as his little brother. Leaving him to stew in his thoughts while staring at the trailer ceiling. 

God, he hated when Daniel was right. 

Because he  _ was _ right, on all the levels - and that was even more annoying. Eliot hated that no matter how much he’d ranted and raved he was this new person no one here would even recognize, that he was so vastly different from the man he’d left here in the dust seven years ago - he wasn’t. He wasn’t this whole new person, completely separate from who he was - he was a  _ brand _ new person, an improved person. Himself, but more himself; he’d grown. Or, so he thought. Until he’d reverted back to his basic instinct tactics to burn and run. Until he dug himself a grave and rolled around in it the night before. 

But everyone else had treated him the way Eliot was now seeing himself - the same but better. He’d changed, yes, people are  _ supposed _ to. That’s part of growing up, living your life. That didn’t stop him from being who he was, who he’d started out as, and apparently - Eliot was the last person to learn this. Everyone else was already with the program.

Then, Eliot had spat in their faces.

Daniel was also right about one other thing. He did have to go see Quentin. Just one last time.

-

The drive out to the house by the river passed in a blur. Eliot sobered up, showered, dressed in another preppy summer outfit that would be more comfortable to his aching, slightly shaky body. Dark jeans and a maroon polo that allowed him to breathe more than his vests would have. He was really beginning to feel how much he was not a teenager anymore. Every inch of his skin felt tender and oversensitive, even after the scaling hot shower he’d hoped would wake his ass up - but no matter how much he styled his hair or tried to polish up his appearance, he still felt crumbled and worn thin from the night before. 

And yet - somehow - he knew something had changed. He felt… different, an awakening that sounded through his bones. He didn’t feel so separate from the world around him any longer. Less like oil and water, more like tea seeping. 

The house was quiet when he pulled up, climbed out and looked around much like the first time he’d come back - only days ago. There were signs of Quentin breaking in the changes Eliot had made, bits and pieces of his things returning to fill in the spaces that kept it from looking like a magazine article. But Eliot didn’t see Quentin anywhere, couldn’t even hear him. Just the sounds of insects in the trees and the river rolling along less than a hundred yards away. Leaves rustled with the breeze, and gravel crunched beneath his boots (Daniel’s boots, really; Eliot was staying a whole ass extra day so he decided to go for sensible over fashion) as he made his way up the drive towards the barn. But when he got there, Q was still nowhere to be seen.

Pieces of carefully cut wood were stacked on the work bench, some in haphazard piles and some in even lines like they were about to be tied off and hauled somewhere. Eliot found himself rifling through them casually, fingertips grazing through the strange burnt patterns that looked too elegant to be intentional. He wasn’t sure why Quentin was collecting and cutting these strange finds, the patterns were lovely but most of the wood was charred beyond recognition and smelled strongly of ash. His boots kicked against a piece missed on the ground, and Eliot crouched down to inspect it, long fingers turning over the flaking pieces that threatened to split apart and wither in his hands. It was oddly beautiful, the destructiveness of it all. He found himself fascinated by it, by what could have caused it, and why the scent was so familiar to him.

“What are you doing here?” 

Quentin appeared, standing there as shocked as Eliot was to find him turning the corner on near silent footsteps. He had bits of the forest stuck to his clothes, the strands of his hair, indicating he’d been out in the surrounding woods for a while now. It was only 9:00am. Eliot couldn’t imagine Quentin rising with the sun, they used to spend all day in bed whenever they could. But that was a long time ago. Now, he looks good; wide awake, and not the least bit hung over.

Slowly, Eliot stood up and placed the piece of wood from the ground on the table with the others. A dozen stakes of charred up wood for a mystery purpose he’d probably never learn. He swallowed hard, stalling and trying to make sure the words that came out of his mouth didn’t reflect anything that had happened that past few days. They had yelled enough, said enough, and at the end of it all Quentin didn’t owe him a damn thing. There was no more anger in Eliot, he was all burned out. Like the ash patterns in the wood pieces. 

“Thought you’d be long gone by now,” Quentin added, when Eliot couldn’t make anything come forth. He rounded the work table so they wouldn’t have to stand too close, stripping off some thick work gloves and a pack with tools. Well worn tools, caked in dirt and wood splinters and moss. 

“I-” fuck, he didn’t know what to say. What to start with. “I put the money back in your account, all of it - even the stuff I spent.” Quentin looked at him sharply, guarded, but there was still something deep down trying so hard to shine through. Peeking through like the morning sun between the trees. It looked like hope, resembled the shape and touched Quentin’s expression in the same way it used to. Even with the careful wariness overlaying it. “Don’t worry, I didn’t break in again. Or return any of the stuff, you can keep it all or throw it out or sell it. Whatever you want.”

“You think that makes up for what you did?” Quentin clipped out, his guard up like a shield between them.

“No,” Eliot said, so sobered in that moment. In Quentin’s stance, the line of his shoulders. Q was so prepared for another fight, he had steeled himself for more of what Eliot had been dishing out, that now he realized it wasn’t what El was there for the air grew more stilted. Thicker, somehow. They didn’t know what to do around each other without that shared animosity. “No. I know it doesn’t make up for anything, but I didn’t want to give you anything else to worry about when I left so just - take it or leave it. I guess.” 

Quentin remained silent, studious, but the tension was leaking from his body the more Eliot spoke. “I’m going to pay some of it back.”

“Don’t, it’s fine. A lot of it needed to be replaced anyway,” Eliot said, hands in his pockets now as he continued to pretend to look around the work space. Like he wasn’t watching Quentin out of the corner of his eye, like his gaze wasn’t drawn back every time he tried to look away. Q was doing the same, for self preservation, but they snapped back together like magnets each time. 

“Well, thanks - for putting everything back. Saves me from bouncing some checks next week,” Quentin admitted, sounding a little more like himself - like he did when it used to be just them - but his reveal was confusing. What did he have to pay for? The house was paid off, the car, school probably wasn’t but that was just life. Eliot’s head ticked to the side, curiosity outweighing the confusion, but now Quentin was watching him openly. That hard expression softening with every breath. “I, uh - I liked what you did. For the most part, and all the stuff probably helps when I pack up all my nerdy belongings.”

“Pack?” 

“Yeah, the realtor was talking about doing decoration shopping, but you saved me from that so - thanks for that, too.”

“Wait. You’re  _ moving _ ?” Eliot was struck, now beyond confused. The house had been set up like a shrine. Or, it had felt like one - to him. Maybe, if he had actually gone back inside and looked around before his soft remodel, he would have seen all the things that were slightly different. Maybe he would have a better realization of all the years Q had had to live in their shared space, alone, and how he had tried to carve out a place for himself to feel safe and not reminded of what he used to have. How hard that must have been, impossible even, when every corner was  _ theirs _ . Remind him of them. 

Really, it was kind of surprising Quentin hadn’t moved before Eliot arrived.

“Yeah, I spend a lot of time down near Louisville, and a lot  _ more _ by Bloomington. I was, well, I was actually going to drive down there today to check on -,” Quentin rambled, and Eliot felt his panic subside partially. That was  _ very _ interesting.

“On what?” Eliot asked, quiet from his shock - a whole slew of shocks, really, hitting one after the other. He was definitely curious now. Quentin  _ hated _ leaving their little sphere of influence here in the MidWest, for anxiety purposes more than anything, but he hadn’t always used to be like that. They always tried to roadtrip when they were teenagers, joyriding as far as they could go without getting into trouble. It was… relieving, to see him falling back into an old skin of an adventurer. Of someone who took chances. He hadn’t been willing to take those chances when Eliot left for New York. That had been part of the problem.

“Look, Eliot,” Quentin started, stopping and running his hands through his hair. His tone changed, he was digging his heels in before they got too friendly. Eliot didn’t blame him. “I signed your papers. I thought… I thought everything was done.” He looked so tired, so wounded, and Eliot forced himself to breathe and get the words out that he needed to say. Because, fuck it all. Daniel was right.

“I just came here to say,” he didn’t know what, but he knew what needed to be heard. Something Eliot did  _ not  _ say often, and that alone would be enough to break through to Quentin that he was serious. After everything he’d been through as a child Eliot had always been under the belief that he didn’t owe the world jack shit, or people, so no matter the circumstance he never - ever - bothered to say “I’m sorry.” Quentin looked up, dark eyes wide and searching, and it pierced right through Eliot’s heart. “I didn’t mean to go that far, to hurt anyone like I did, or you - for that matter.” God, he could still see Alice’s tear-riddled, hurt expression, burned behind his retinas. 

“I’m not the one that needs an apology, Eliot,” Quentin near whispered.

“Yes, you are,” Eliot said. He wouldn’t let Q downplay what happened, like he always did. “You’re just not the… only one.” Quentin really gave him a glance then, hidden half behind strands of hair falling around his face. That look could fill volumes. “You’re just the first one.” Eliot swallowed hard, and realized he could - breathe a little easier. Felt a little lighter, now that he knew what he had to do with his last day in Indiana. It would be much better than his previous one seven years ago. “And I wanted to say, thank you.” He wasn’t going to elaborate, nor was Quentin going to ask him to, the shared look was enough to show that Eliot was grateful. Grateful that Q was finally, after years of bitter resentment, letting him have this chance to separate them. For good. A chance for a new life.

Quentin tried to not look sad; Eliot tried not to feel it, either. But they both couldn’t deny it. Because they were finally over, they were officially on the same page, and there was still so much left unsaid in the space between them. As burned up and scared a landscape as it was, the war was over and they could both go home to lick their wounds and move on. 

“You - you might want to step back. I have to load this all up before I head out,” Quentin said, nonchalantly wiping at his face and Eliot sniffed and rubbed his own nose to quell the burning sensation lining his eyes. 

“Where?” he asked, more out of necessity to make this a little bit normal.

“Same place I’m usually going,” was Quentin’s non-answer, and Eliot found himself laughing like it was a joke. He could not even  _ fathom _ where he would go or what Quentin could possibly be doing with strips of perfectly cut burned wood. 

“You’re really going to leave?” he wasn’t asking about wherever Q disappeared to during the day. 

“Yep,” Quentin chirped back anyway, dragging the bundles hidden under tarps Eliot hadn’t gotten to poke through all the way to his jeep, where he loaded stuff in the back with ease. His back had to be lined with hard muscle to be able to do that. His voice sounded a little lighter, too, and Eliot hoped it wasn’t as forced as he feared it was. That Quentin would be able to heal from the wounds as quickly as he hoped he could. “Not much left here for me. Dad is doing alright, and everyone else is moving on. Someone said I should be doing the same.” 

“Where are you going to go?” Eliot can’t keep the sound of himself caring too much out of his words, out of his eyes as he watched Quentin move about the work space. 

“Don’t worry, I have some things lined up,” Quentin pretended to boast, coughing to hide a bark of a half laugh, and it eased a small smile onto Eliot’s face as well. “Places to go, worlds to conquer, quests to be had.”

“Oh, yeah?” Eliot was smothering laughter, too, because Quentin sounded so different. What had just happened? Did the snapping of the final tie really free him that much? Or, did he know something Eliot didn’t? See something in Eliot that was causing this effortless change. Not just in Quentin but between them. Something had just  _ happened _ and it slipped into the space where grief tried to build a home. Easing the both of them into this comfortable banter and air surrounding them, that felt like nostalgia but also sparked of new beginnings. Threatening one hell of a good time. “And what might that be?” he was teasing now, and Quentin’s eyes sparkled at how he purred out the words in jest. Then he looked off, contemplating - Eliot knew this because he was biting his lip in that way when he was caught up thinking about something. Something good, that he was proud of or loved with all his geeky little heart. Eliot loved to see it, had missed it.

“You want to come?” he asked, blurting it out before he changed his mind.

“What, come with you? Where?” Eliot was confused but not smiling any less. He didn’t know where this was going, or why Quentin had suddenly flipped the switch so drastically. He was looking at Eliot like he used to, and there was this spark - this warmth - and an excitement like a kid of Christmas that was shining within him. What was going  _ on _ ? 

Then Quentin’s smile spread so easy across his face, wide and gentle. “I want to show you something.” 

Eliot lost his breath, somewhere between an inhale and an exhale; frozen in place.  _ God _ , how many times had he said that to Eliot? Whitespire, the burning tree in the woods, so many wonderful things awaited behind those words. Q had never let him down, when he promised something spectacular. His expectations always exceeded whatever he could imagine, and Eliot choked on a laugh because - 

He wanted to. He wanted to go with Quentin. His heart ached to go and see what the man had taken up that had him so enraptured. So full of life. But…

“I can’t,” Eliot said, tripped over the syllables. His heart was tugging him forward even with his heels firmly digging into the ground.

“Can’t, or wont?” Q challenged, and Eliot’s breath returned to him with a shiver.

“Both?” Eliot said, exasperated. He was fucking engaged, they just finalized their divorce - this should be weird. It should be awkward as fuck. Not  _ this _ , whatever this was; not charged with a new kind of electricity that licked at the skin so enticingly. Quentin shouldn’t be grinning at him, sly and so fucking sexy (what is WRONG with him, goddamnit Eliot get it together!) and Eliot didn’t know how they ended up here. He didn’t know why he felt like he was falling as Quentin rounded the trailer he just finished hooking up to his jeep, closing the space between them ever so slowly.

“That doesn’t sound like you,” Quentin told him. “The Eliot I remember used to be fearless. The wind blew one way and you were chasing after it just to-” he stopped short and Eliot was staring at him so intensely, so lost, that they caught and snagged on each other without even touching. “Just to live.” Whatever Eliot felt, Quentin was feeling it too; the confidence waxed and waned like clouds covering the moon, and that was more endearing than words could describe. How he looked up into Eliot’s face and searched, dared him, asked him, waited - always waiting. He would have waited until the world ended, if Eliot hadn’t forced his hand.

“Yeah, well,” Eliot said abruptly, shaking himself out of the trance. Tearing his eyes away, stopping the moment before it stretched any further. “The Eliot you knew didn’t have a life.”

Quentin’s smile slid to a small smirk, quirked to one side unconvincingly, and didn’t reach his eyes. “Guess you better get on with it, then.”

“Unfinished business, first,” Eliot reminded him, his hands back in his pockets - he couldn’t remember why or when he’d moved them in the first place.

“Alice first?” Q asked, swaying back a step.

“Yeah, then your dad.” 

Something softened in Quentin’s gaze, and he nodded, his arms crossed and his defenses began to build back up brick by brick. He’d given it a shot, whatever that had been. It had almost worked, too, Eliot realized with a quiet gasp.

“Well, he’ll be setting up the tents for Old Settler’s this afternoon. He’ll probably make you stay, too.”

“We’ll see.” Eliot highly doubted he would be welcome downtown after the night before.

Quentin gave him one final look, didn’t touch him - but he looked like he wanted to. Maybe not a hug, but a pat on the arm or something else in solidarity for what he was about to go do. But instead he just nodded, awkward and careful once more, and mumbled out ‘good luck’ before he climbed into the cab of his truck. Not even a proper goodbye, or a hesitation when he shifted out of park and drove away. Once again leaving Eliot alone on the lawn of their former home, watching him leave and trying to not feel anything about it.

Not even this final time, when every part of his rational mind told him it would be the last time he saw Quentin Coldwater. His heart, and his gut, told him that he could never be that lucky. They had too much left unsaid. But that would be for another day.

He had other apologies to make, first.

-

Glistening in the Indiana countryside, hidden by rolling hills and the Coldwater White Oak Forest, was the Brakebills Estate. A sprawling pale brick mansion with turrets, high walls, intricate stonework, and a small man-made stream that flowed through the valley of one of the hills. Not exactly a moat, but it worked as one well enough from the main road. It wasn’t the only castle in Indiana, supposedly there were eight more littered throughout the state, but it was probably the most accurate in historical comparison. It was also one of the most beautiful places Eliot had ever stepped foot into, and he’d been to a lot of beautiful and dazzling places since he’d taken residence in New York.

But nothing could ever beat their real life Whitespire. Not many people knew that’s what he and Quentin had called it ever since they saw it over the hills outside his family’s farm. It was a perfect jewel from afar, catching every ray of sun that shined on it, and up close it was just as gorgeous. The local schools always had field trips there, one of the few places close enough to not cost an arm and a leg, so Eliot remembered being awestruck in the middle of third grade going through the giant gates and taking the winding cobblestone drive all the way to the front doors. It was no less impressive at 27; especially now that he had events and galas to compare it to. 

The views alone were enough to help soothe his nerves, thankfully; allowing Eliot to regain his composure before he went in search of Alice. He had already procrastinated enough. After Quentin left him at the house, Eliot had gone back into town to mail the divorce papers, overnight service. Between his flight the next day and the time difference he wouldn’t make it back into the city before the legal offices closed - and to be honest, he really didn’t feel like delivering them in person. Once his divorce lawyer got this manila envelope he wouldn’t have to hear one more word about it, or talk to the sniveling excuse for a law-man who had been bleeding him dry for seven years. Lawyers were blood-sucking ticks at best. The last thing he needed would be a congratulations, or a condolences, really anything that would come out of his lawyers mouth made him cringe at the thought. But it was done, finally fucking done. No more legal calls. No more documents cluttering his mailbox or his work spaces. If he never heard the word ‘lawyer’ again it would be too soon.

So he had mailed the papers, managed to dodge Fogg as it was all his building and offices, as well as Penny - although he had no idea if the man was working. But he wouldn’t put it past Penny to kick his ass if he heard Eliot had mailed his damn bill of divorcement before he’d apologized to his best friend. Time zones aside, Alice was important. He was just… nervous.

It was easy not to look it, though, and Eliot climbed the few bleached stone steps to the front door and grasped the ornate silver knocker before he could talk himself out of it. The deep bass knocks echoed around the foray, and Eliot looked around him as he waited for an answer. The place really was gorgeous in the summer; everything was green and some of the flowers were still striving to stay fresh and crisp under the blazing Indiana sun. It wasn’t even very humid that day, the heat less pressing and easily carried away on the breeze. It was a good weekend for the Fair downtown. Shame he’d miss it.

The doors creaked loudly as they opened and a small woman stooped by the decades on her shoulders looked up at him. “May I help you? We don’t have any tours today.”

“Oh, no thank you,” Eliot replied, charming smile and polite lilt to his words coming back so easily it was like he’d never let the mask drop. “I’m looking for Alice Quinn, is she available?” 

An explosion rocked the castle, shaking the floor and Eliot felt the vibration through his boots. The old woman closed her eyes as if bracing for impact, then let out a sigh of exasperation. “If she’s alive, they’ll be in the lab. Follow me.” her own careful smile at the beckoning, and Eliot nodded in solidarity. Working for Margo years ago had trained him to smile in the face of devastation as well, anything for a guest. He followed her through the grand halls, the vaulted ceilings so high Eliot had to wonder how they were even cleaned, and then was led through a maze of hallways and painting and tapestries. The Estate was decorated to look like a real castle; it had it’s odd historical museum type nooks and crannies, with information panels and spaced evenly throughout the first floor. It was also wedding season, in addition to tourist/road trip season, so the whole building was looking its best. The Estate was used quite often in the summer. Everyone wanted to be married in a castle. 

They came up to a wide, sweeping staircase that led to both the upper and lower floors; and the maid pointed to the ones that descended. However, she wasn’t going with him. That wasn’t ominous at all. “The main room is the lab, watch your step.” Far below the first floor, the stone walls and floors made it appear more like a dungeon, and Eliot carefully followed the steps down into what appeared to be a movie set for a mad scientist’s laboratory. Chemistry hadn’t been his forte in high school, so it might not have been as science-fictiony as his brain was letting on, but the set up was very elaborate nonetheless. State of the art, if he had to guess, crowded along a very long wooden table containing glass and liquids and a few lit Bunsen burners that probably shouldn’t have been left alone. 

With careful steps Eliot rounded the table, not wanting to touch or break anything, and found a wide open space next to the table with drawings and markings on the ground. Some of which look like burn marks. But he had less chance of bumping into any of the very expensive equipment on the tables so he made his way across the stone expanse, inspecting the burns that very much looked like when a firecracker went off on the sidewalk (his fourth of July experience told him), but he was also careful not to touch those as well. 

No one was in sight, nothing moved except for the bubbling chemicals on the table, and Eliot turned in place trying to find a door or a window or a person. Nothing. 

“Alice? You in here?” he called, his voice carrying very far with the stone ceiling. “If you’re tied up just bang on some pipes or something!” To his right, half hidden in the darkness, lay a barricade of tables and chairs. Broken and singed, pieced together to be more effective than aesthetically pleasing. From behind it, Alice popped up wearing protective eyewear over her glasses and huge gun range headphones, and her eyes were wide. 

“Eliot!? Oh my God, DON’T MOVE.” Eliot was pretty sure he’d never seen her more urgent or afraid than that moment. He froze, one foot hovering as he’d been walking towards her, and suddenly another deafening bang went off like a gunshot in the stone room. It echoed  _ painfully _ , leaving Eliot’s ears ringing and his vision a little wavey. He barely had time to scream out “what the FUCK” when something went flying by him so fast it very well could have been a bullet, and exploded about seven feet away. He felt the heat on his arms and back, and he crouched down just in case anything else came hurtling towards him. He honestly wouldn’t have been able to hear if it did.

“JESUS CHRIST!”

“I SAID DON’T MOVE!” Alice yelled at him, ripping off her headphones and pulling off the set attached to the man beside her that Eliot hadn’t even seen, peeking over the barricade like a creeper. “Hold your fire!” she hollered at him, or at least that’s what Eliot thought she said.

“What is he doing here? Move out of way! You’re ruining our experiment!” The old man started hollering at Eliot. Alice ignored his shouting, his thick Russian accent (that may or may not have been fake, he couldn’t tell) distorting his words a bit - or that might have been Eliot’s new ailment of tinnitus. She came loping up to him, headphones around her neck and goggles perched on her head, looking him over worriedly - but then stopping short. Oh yeah, that’s right. He had a reason he was here risking his life (apparently). 

“We weren’t aiming for you, I promise. Are you hit?” 

“No,” Eliot managed to say, trying to clear out his ears with his pinkie finger. The ringing sound was persistent, like talking over the period bell in High School.

“Good,” she sighed, yet still wary. “But I don’t think I would have gone to your funeral if you were.” Her arms were crossed and she wasn’t really looking at him directly, while still somehow inspecting him for any wounds or shrapnel.

“Guess I wouldn’t blame you,” Eliot said. He’d be one to talk about missing funerals, anyway. But really, she wouldn’t have been in the wrong. “Look, I know - what I said last night - it was really-”

“Cruel? Unoriginal?” Alice clipped at him, expectant like something should be clicking, and she scoffed in disbelief at Eliot’s lack of recognition. “Guess it doesn’t take much to forget things for you, does it? Or do you really not remember what the other girls used to say to me in middle school?” No, he remembered. He hadn’t really made the connection, the night before, but all the precise jabs and mockery about her being as crazy as her mom were really uncalled for in the morning light. Insanely uncalled for. As were the  _ Alice in Wonderland  _ references. He shouldn’t have said any of that.

“Alice, I”m so sorry; you know I don’t think that.” The surprise at his up front apology was immediately masked by his commentary, and Eliot realized his mistake as soon as it came out of his mouth. 

“No, I’ll tell you what I know, Eliot,” Alice said. “I know a lot of things, and I do not forget. Not like you. Forcing yourself to not remember the foundation that built us. You can try to forget this town: the roads, and the buildings, and the fields, but did you really forget all of us? Quentin wasn’t the only one you ran away from. You left all of us.” 

She said it like she’d been holding it all back for a while now. 

“I know I did,” Eliot said quietly, apologetic and genuine about it. Really, no one could beat him up more than himself in the guilt department; although his family was always gunning for the title. But the admission wasn’t enough for Alice. Who still had the tightest hold on her arms, staring up into Eliot’s face and searching for any flicker of emotion that would betray the moment. She knew the shape he took the night before wasn’t him, the real him - the Eliot she knew backwards and forwards - but she wouldn’t be Alice Quinn if she didn’t double and triple check what was in front of her. Just in case. After how he treated her, and everyone else the night before, her suspicions were valid. Eliot was a good actor, when he wanted to be, but he wasn’t  _ this _ good. Beneath the scrutiny of his oldest best friend, aside from Quentin, he knew that only the barest, most vulnerable explanation would do. Alice wasn’t going to accept anything less than that. “I guess I just thought that, if I pushed that line hard enough none of you would bother to miss me when I leave again. If I’m too hard to look at, or listen to, then no one would be able to see through me.” 

It was the most honest he’d been with anyone, even himself, since he’d arrive in Indiana - and he hoped Alice could feel that, too.

“ALICE! WHERE ARE THE FUCKING FUSES!?” Professor Mayakovsky screamed from somewhere far behind them, and Alice rolled her eyes. She held up the bundle she had tucked under her arm in indication, and then glanced at Eliot expectantly. But Eliot didn’t know what else to say after that; it was all he had. He must really suck at apologies if she still looked as sad and troubled as she did. 

“I better go, before he reminds himself he knows how to make fire,” Alice muttered. She turned and stalked away, arms still crossed tightly. “And I’d move, if I were you.” That was the second time someone had said that to him that day. 

“Bye,” he whispered sadly, not sure if she could even hear him. But there was nothing else to do but climb back up the staircase and try to leave with some semblance of dignity. He’d apologized, honestly for once in his life, but it wasn’t Alice’s responsibility to forgive him. She didn’t have to if he didn’t deserve it. 

He was also  _ definitely _ not staying for Old Settler’s days. His mom would just have to burden one more disappointment from her youngest son. He’d probably end up hiding in the trailer and drink some more, or suffer the long drive a day early and drink at the airport bar in Indianapolis. Something with liquor. He shouldn’t even be  _ thinking _ about liquor after the night he just endured, but it would be so nice to not give a shit about anything for a minute. Not when his heart felt like it had just been carved out of his chest. 

Closure was bullshit, just as he’d expected.

With a flourish of dark framed sunglasses and a hot summer breeze tousling his clothes Eliot exited the Estate with his head held high, already compartmentalizing as best he could. He tossed his car keys in the air and caught them, over and over, as he allowed himself another brief moment to brood a little, when he suddenly heard the trademark “ _ click click click _ ” of a camera lens. He looked up to see a… young man in a suit taking his picture, like this was the country club and Eliot was worth taking a photo of, and then he had the  _ audacity _ to smile in Eliot’s direction. What the actual fuck?

“Can I fucking help you?” He asked, glaring - although the man couldn’t see behind his sunglasses. His sunny demeanor was evidence enough of that.

“Hi, yes hi! I’m Todd, Elliot Todd - funny, we have the same name,” he outright laughed, joyous and Eliot was  _ not _ in the mood.

“Hilarious.”

“I am so glad I found you, I wasn’t sure what to do and it is so isolated out here. Every horror film in a cornfield comes to mind,” he jested. Man had jokes, and non-malicious ones at that. Not Eliot’s crowd.

“Todd, was it?” he said with his best fake smile that still was far too close to a sneer. He doubted the man would notice. “Yes - why are you here?”

“Oh! I work for Mayor Chatwin, he wanted me to come down and check on you, and to see your house. The magazines weren’t exaggerating, it’s a real castle!” Todd exclaimed, looking up at the high turrets and towers.

Eliot’s blood was ice cold. 

Fucking. 

Martin.

His customer service persona clicked in so fast it could give whiplash. He laughed airily and changed his expression by minute fractions. “Yes - yes, it is. The great grandparents were eccentric.” 

“No kidding!” Todd laughed back, and Eliot’s face hurt from holding the smile there. “Can I look around? This place is so cool!”

“ _ Actually _ , I was just on my way out.”

“Oh,” Todd deflated, then perked up so fast he practically bounced on his toes. “I can just come back later, then!”  _ Goddamit _ , Eliot did his best not to scowl. “Mayor Chatwin wanted photos of everything, he said he only wished he could have come himself. But you know, city that never sleeps.” 

“Oh you are just a bundle of laughs, aren’t you,” Eliot said through gritted teeth - deciding he really, really didn’t like Todd. But he still snagged the man’s arm and spun him back around from his trek back to his car, “I guess one quick look won’t hurt.” He turned around, stalled at the front door of the Estate he did  _ not _ own, and spun back like a wind-up toy, dragging Todd along for the strange dance. The other man didn’t even complain about the complicated steering. Martin had trained him well. “How about the gardens, first? They’re stunning, wrap all the way around the grounds.”

“Aren’t you in a hurry?” Todd asked, confused but not discouraged. 

“We’ll be  _ super _ quick,” Eliot grinned back, feral as could be.

-

Magically, Eliot and Todd make it around the castle at a brisk pace without being seen by the staff, and even onto some of the patios decorated with elaborate fountains and stone work. The foliage was overflowing, as green as money could buy, and very much something out of a fairy tale book. Eliot even convinced Todd to take a few pictures through the windows instead of attempting to break into the mansion.

“The family living quarters are all on the upper and basement levels,” Eliot told him with a poise and air like he knew what he was talking about. “The ground floor is reserved and decorated for tourist season, and destination weddings of course. We have a lot of them around here, kind of a staple of the county.” He was the best bullshitter he knew, he was proud to say. Todd basically had his face pressed against the beautiful sectioned windows, and Eliot winced at the smudges they were leaving behind. Teenagers probably still broke in here all the time, right? Right.

“Can we go inside now!?” Todd asked, far too excited for the occasion. Or the oppressing heat. 

“You know, the… whole reason I was leaving was because they’re… cleaning,” Eliot said. “We can’t step on the stone floors without leaving anything behind, so sadly we will have to raincheck for your next visit to the MidWest-”

“Eliot?” Alice’s voice floated from behind them, scaring the living shit out of him. “What are you still doing here? And who’s your friend?” she looked between them, suspicious, and Eliot was hopelessly trying to decide if he could get her to not say anything as he lied through his teeth. The prospect of her  _ helping _ was probably out of the question, considering the talk they had not too long ago. 

“Alice! This is - Mr. Todd, one of - he works for my fiancè’s brother, who is the mayor. Of New York City,” Eliot did his best not to stammer, but he still fumbled over his own words and he couldn’t quite look Alice in the face without looking desperate. “He came down to check on me, isn’t that sweet?”

“Terribly,” Alice said carefully, still looking between the two of them.

“Nice to meet you,” Todd said, having more manners than Eliot did (which was incredibly sad) and he shook Alice’s hand. “Um, I’m not just here for a social visit, either. Mayor Chatwin also asked for a report on the castle and its history in your family. He seemed really interested in it.”

“Yeah, I bet he was,” Eliot said through gritted teeth. Alice openly smirked at him, much more relaxed than she’d been moments before.

“The  _ family _ history, you say?” she asked, practically giggling and Eliot caved. Looked straight into her gorgeous eyes behind vintage frames and gave her the most pleading, desperate look. As close to begging without physically getting on his knees. He never, in a MILLION years, expected to be caught in this lie. He expected to be a prominent fashion designer, but not enough that someone would come  _ investigating _ . Fuck Martin and his fucking schemes. “Well, I can help you with that,” Alice chirped, looking back to Todd with a small smile.

“You can? Are you two related?”

“Yes, of course!” Eliot exclaimed, a little over the top. “Alice is my - cousin. She knows all about the estate, more than I do that’s for sure. She has been helping Uncle Misha with the tourist season.”

“I give tours all the time, come this way.” Alice opened the side door, and had them step carefully around the displays and into the grand foyer.

“I didn’t know you were Russian?” Todd said to Eliot, absent-mindedly.

“He married in, we don’t talk about him.”

Alice did the most…  _ spectacular _ job distracting Todd with paintings and historical artifacts that were sectioned off in corners of the vast estate. She was overflowing with information on the building itself, dates and previous owners and building statistics that may or may not have been made up (because the Waugh name was added often) and she certainly filled Todd’s cup to the brim with research for his report. They spent over an hour waltzing the grand corridors and stone rooms of the Brakebills Estate, until finally Eliot made noises about needing to leave and sent Todd scurrying towards the door with apologies. Together Alice and Eliot stood on the grand front porch under it’s decorative awning and waved Todd off in his rental car all the way back to the airport.  _ He  _ had managed a flight home the same day, courtesy of the NYC tax payers. 

They waved him all the way down the long drive, then Alice - with her hands pinned behind her back to keep them from doing that victory dance Eliot  _ hated _ \- spun on her heels, short skirts fluttering, to smile that shit-eating grin reserved for Eliot and Eliot alone. 

“ _ Liar, liar, pants on fire _ ,” she sung at him, and Eliot grinned so wide and relieved and teasing it chased away all worries from his expression. Alice was cackling and it was the most wonderful thing to hear. “You are the BIGGEST fucking liar, Eliot Waugh. You told them you grew up in a  _ castle _ !”

“Oh my God, shut  _ up _ you brat!” Eliot ended up shouting, as he chased her back through the giant oak doors before she could shut him out. “You aren’t going to let me forget this either, are you-”

“Bet your ass, I think I might change my tombstone quote.”

“Alice, I swear to God!” He chased her all the way down the hall and through the rooms with more expensive things than even insurance could replace. Laughing like they were kids again, and Eliot’s heart felt lighter than air. They would end up chasing each other until they collapsed on the cool stone floors. “ALICE!”

“Oh, go back to New York!”

\--


	11. x. Old Settler's Day

-

Eliot had one last stop to make, before he could head back to his family’s farm and pack everything up. Or decide what he was going to do with himself the rest of the night. Because as much as his mom or Daniel or Alice pleaded, he could not be at Old Settler’s Days when it hit full swing that evening. He wanted to tell himself he wasn’t running away, hiding at his mom’s house, because that sounded very depressing - but who was he kidding, not showing up was the best thing he could do for everyone. 

He parked on the outskirts of town, where hay-lined dirt parking lots had been set up for the event, and made his way through the crowded streets of downtown Knightsville. It was picture perfect, as always, with polished red fire trucks blocking the thoroughfare, and colorful stalls with white sheet tops lining the buildings already. Filled with foods and local goods, crafts and hundreds of other things; another street housing food trucks with all the stereotypical state fair food, and at the far end the small carnival was already raised and running. String lights were hanging in diagonal patterns across the streets, waiting to sprinkle the small town with a little bit more magic once the sun went down. It was mid-afternoon, so the festival was filled with families and small children running about, enjoying what they could before bedtime, and Eliot weaved between them as best he could. 

Also yes, Old Settler’s did sound like a holiday celebrating White colonialism and manifest destiny, he was well aware. People in the MidWest lived in this happy little bubble, even out in the sticks, where those kinds of thoughts didn’t even cross their minds - ignorance a much larger vice than bigotry, in most cases. The festival was basically just a yearly farmer’s market and craft fair with a ferris wheel added sometime in the 1940’s. It had a parade one morning, where the local high school played (they had one, read that again - one), and the festivities lasted the whole weekend. Weather permitting. Eliot couldn’t believe he’d overlooked the weekend he was supposed to be there, because yes - he had loved it as a kid. Even as a teenager, it was one of those things everyone looked forward to, or had fond memories of. With the streets partitioned off no one could really run off without being seen, so it was the first place most kids got to be independent of their parents in a public setting. Those nights were immortal. Lots of memories. 

Even more after they were old enough to drink, but still - that hadn’t really stopped them when they were young. Eliot was pretty sure he had his first beer behind the tailgate of his brother’s pickup in the parking lot. 

Speaking of beer, Eliot rounded the corner in the middle of town to head down the fourth and final street, where there were more elaborate stalls and seating set up for drinking. Homebrews and professional vendors, and right there in the best spot in the whole street - was Ted’s pop-up bar. Where he’d serve beer in red solo cups for better mobility, and allow people to drink the harder stuff as long as they sat at his make-shift bartop. The combination of local liquors, generous pours, and real glassware would keep business there, as it was catty-corner to the stage where live music would be playing in plain view of the bar. The wooden bartop had already been assembled, braced against a wooden frame with bar stools and surrounded by an assortment of metal patio furniture. It looked like a good set up, even half finished, and Eliot refused to feel sad about the fact he’d miss out on seeing it all lit up and bustling later.

Julia was there. He wasn’t sure why. She had used to work at Ted’s place part-time in the summers, saving up tips for when she had to go back to college, but those days were long behind them now. He saw her behind the bartop helping Ted unpack crates of liquors and glasses, carting boxes of bottled beers, and once she saw Eliot step between the tent flaps (closed for business, it was still too early) she outright glared at him. She dropped the 24-pack she was carrying loudly, bottles clanking together dangerously.

“What are you doing here?” 

“Is Ted around?” Eliot asked instead of answering her. He would not get defensive, not after his behavior the night before. Julia had every right to be pissed at him. He was glad someone was actually acting accordingly towards him, it was kind of relieving. Julia just looked at him, her arms crossed, and didn’t say a word in response. “I’m - I’m not staying. I just needed to talk to him, for a moment.” 

“You talk to Q?” she snapped, expectant.

“Yes, first thing this morning.”

“Did you have anything to say for yourself?” 

He hadn’t planned on making this information public, he had a reputation after all - but he guessed that his reputation was changing rapidly around town, so there was really nothing holding him back any longer. “I told him I was sorry.”

“You? Really?” Julia looked as if she didn’t quite believe him. 

“Yeah,” Eliot said, no hesitation or aggression. As open and honest as he could be. Q was owed an apology, all of them were; he was grown up enough to admit that. Ted had appeared sometime during Julia’s grill session, and Julia looked between them. Eliot’s calm demeanor was throwing her for a loop, but El was just too tired to fight any more. “And I’m sorry to you, too,” he told her, shocking her more than a little bit. “And Kady, for having to deal with what I put everyone through last night. Thanks for dragging me out of there.”

“That was Penny, he and Kady hauled you out the door - not me.” He had honestly not been able to tell, at the time. His vision blurred to hell and the floor looked like the ceiling. Gandhi himself could have thrown Eliot out of Ted’s bar and he wouldn’t have been the wiser.

“All the same,” Eliot shrugged. He couldn’t do more than apologize, and he hated that more than standing there throwing his sentiments to the wind and hoping for the best. He didn’t know any ways to make it up to them or where to even start. It didn’t feel like enough, nowhere near, but it was better than doing nothing at all. This much he knew. It was more than he would have done seven years ago, which he hoped counted for something. 

But he didn’t blame one single person if they didn’t forgive him. No one owed him shit.

“Jules,” Ted said, setting a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Would you mind going back to the bar and getting those last couple crates for me? I think Eliot and I need a few minutes.”

Julia nodded, and left the tent still watching Eliot with that piercing gaze he could feel burning holes in the side of his face - but she did leave, and Ted came up to Eliot with his hands in his pockets. He and Q had so many of the same traits, he realized. The older they got, it became more and more apparent. 

“Was wondering when you’d find me,” Ted said with a small smile. 

“I have a couple other stops to make first,” Eliot said, quiet and subdued. Ted just nodded in understanding.

“Apology tours are never fun, but I’m happy to see you here. C’mon, pull up a seat.”

The barstools and chairs weren’t completely set up yet, so he pat the tabletop that looked sturdy enough to hold them both, and did an awkward little hop to get himself up there. Eliot sat beside him, and they looked out at the crowds of people milling past on the far street. Kids and teens and parents pushing babies in strollers, all felt so far and displaced from where they sat. It helped, the seclusion. Eliot was able to find his words faster with Ted than he had with Q, or Alice, or even Julia. 

“I really am sorry, Ted,” Eliot said. “For everything.” He didn’t just mean the night before, but he did especially mean it. A lot had happened between the last time it was just the two of them sitting to talk and now. Years. Almost a decade. “Last night was - it shouldn’t have happened, and I shouldn’t have said what I did. I didn’t mean it, not a word.”

“I know you didn’t, son.” He put an arm around Eliot and accepted his apologies with a forgiving face. “I saw what you were doing, even before you started really leaning into it.” Eliot hadn’t known he was that obvious about his evil plot, but then again Ted always seemed to be the one that could see right through everyone. He didn’t always do anything about it, much to the chagrin of all the other parents (and his ex-wife), but he could always seem more than most. He saw Eliot, that’s for sure, and that was something that hit him hard growing up. An adult who saw him, instead of looking through him, or averting their eyes. “Those people, your friends, they love you more than family - and that’s something that takes a long time to see straight.” Eliot swallowed, thinking about how maybe, back in high school, he would have agreed with Ted. Wouldn’t have even blinked. But now, he wasn’t sure that those terms still applied. Not after all the water under the bridge.

“You have a good family, up there in New York?” Ted asked him, when Eliot didn’t voice an opinion of his own. “People who look out for you?” He was genuine about it, wanting to know, so Eliot found himself nodding minutely. 

“I do. Well, it’s mostly just my friend Margo, and Sebastian - my fiancè,” Eliot said, hands clasped in front of him as he leaned forward and kept looking out into the crowd. “And I have my crew of worker bees, my second hand who kicks my ass into gear, but I hired them so I don’t know if that counts. Or if they’d want me to call them family.” Ted just smiled that knowing smile. 

“They work hard for you?” 

“Harder than I could have ever imagined,” Eliot confessed. He paused, scuffing his shoes against the ground as he thought back to not a week ago when he last saw them. Running themselves ragged, then partying into the afternoon like it was Spring Break in Daytona Beach. “I had a show, at New York Fashion Week, before I got here - and I worked so hard for it. We all did. Spent a whole year making that collection, and it went  _ so well _ .”

“That’s amazing. Congratulations.” Ted told him with earnest and pride, beaming at him as he clasped his shoulder lovingly. Eliot snapped his head up to look over at him, and he swore to God he was not going misty at Ted’s smile. Not even his own mother had congratulated him on that achievement.

“Thank you,” Eliot said. He was not tearing up, he  _ wasn’t _ . “Um, but - my crew, they worked their asses off. Stitched and sewed and worked until their fingers bled. We barely slept the week before.” Eliot swallowed and looked at his hands, worrying the rings on his fingers there, not able to mask the astonishment in his voice as he laid it all out. “They went above and beyond for me.”

“And after?” Ted pressed, gently leading. 

“Oh, they’ve been blowing up my phone all week,” Eliot said with a quip and a smile all his own. Fuck, he loved those fashion nerds; and he missed them. Ted was just smiling down at him as Eliot spoke, the whole time, and Eliot narrowed his eyes at the man when he saw that look. “What?”

“Sounds like you have a great family waiting for you,” Ted told him. “Just because they work for you doesn’t mean they aren’t family. In fact, it probably means more. You’ve been in the trenches together, and they stuck with you - all the way to the end.” 

Eliot couldn’t disagree with that, and his heart felt lighter having it pointed out to him.

“When we grow up, we find our own families, Eliot,” Ted went on. “As a parent, I will always loved my kids more than life itself, but until you have kids of your own, if you decide to - your family is your friends. The ones you don’t give up on, and who don’t give up on you.”

“Guess that makes me the shittiest person in the world, huh,” Eliot resigned, but Ted just squeezed him into a side-hug and shook his head.

“Eliot, the fact you are here - apologizing - means you also don’t want to give up on your family. Because you  _ are _ family. Especially to me, even before my son went and made it legal.” With Ted’s warm hand on his shoulder, his arm around him, and his smile brought it all back. Eliot did remember this part, more than anything. 

Whenever someone in his vicinity spoke about their father; loving, supporting, stern but that all-American archetype, and usually relating to a story of solid support and wisdom - Eliot did not think of his own dad. Who had lived his whole, miserable life with a permanent scowl in his weathered face. Ruled with a fist and a belt and a cruel, sharp tongue. No, Eliot wouldn’t give that bastard the time of day, not even in his memories.

No, he thought of Ted Coldwater. Who he had known just as long as he’d known Quentin. Who had sat with him more times than Eliot could count, and helped him through some very hard times. Hugged him when he needed it and wasn’t getting it anywhere else, gave him a place to go when he couldn’t go home, and had even had a talk or two with old John Waugh. Which never did much for long, if it all, but he  _ tried _ . He cared. He loved Eliot like a son, and Eliot loved him right back.

“I always did what I could to help, Eliot, but I know it was nowhere near enough. Not with the way your father raised you boys. That anger is a poison.” He paused after that, cut himself off short and quick, rethinking his words. Eliot felt a little nervous about where Ted might have taken that thought before he’d stopped himself. “What I’m saying is, there was a lot of ways you could have grown up, Eliot. You could be a very different man than who is sitting next to me. But you did something I know your family told you was impossible. You stood up, you walked away, and you grew into yourself. You grew into this man who works hard, and appreciates the people who do the same, and you care - no, don’t you pull that face. You do. You care more than most, and I know you try hard to make sure people can’t see that. I’m sure up in New York that can get you taken advantage of pretty quick, but El - despite the hardships you’ve lived through you held on to that. And I’m so proud of you.” 

Eliot couldn’t listen to him anymore. Not after the shit he’d just pulled for days on end, what he’d put Quentin through and everyone else. Ted always did live with rose-colored glasses on. He shook his head stubbornly, shoulders hunched and eyes on the ground. “No Ted, I’m sorry. I’m not any of that-”

Ted stopped him with just a gentle pat on his back. 

“You’re a good man, Eliot. You just need reminding of that, sometimes.” 

After a lifetime of his father and brothers telling him otherwise, Eliot’s first instinct was to not believe him. To drag up every single thing that could counter Ted’s heartfelt statement, but the old man left no room for argument, no matter what Eliot conjured up in his mind. Sure, he got out - ran away, like he always would - and he was still the same miserable excuse of a person who had left Indiana years ago. Just a different brand, in better clothes. Ted had taken his arm back, patting the dust off his jeans and letting Eliot stew further. He still knew him so well, knew when to back off and let Eliot tell himself lies. He knew his words would still stick, cocky in his passiveness.

“Are you happy up there?” Ted asked, his tone changing the subject only slightly. Pivoting to a different facet, coming at him at a different angle all covert like, as parents do. “Does this Secretary of City Planning make you smile?” Eliot did smile, small and despite himself, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of Ted’s terminology or the thought of Sebastian still up in New York waiting for him. It was enough to convince Ted without him having to answer. “Good, that’s good. That’s all that matters. You deserve to be happy, son, just like the rest of us.”

Eliot swallowed, not sure if he trusted his voice after it got caught up in his throat sometime around the start of Ted’s lecture. “What about Quentin?” he hated bringing up Q to Ted. No matter how much the man thought of Eliot as a son, Quentin was his  _ actual  _ son. Surely, he would always side with him, always take care of him. 

Ted just chuckled at his tentative question, as if Eliot’s apprehension was endearing. As if it somehow proved his point. “Don’t you worry about Curly-Q, he’s done very well for himself.” He sounded proud, if vague, and Eliot was then reminded just how much he’d missed over the years. He didn’t know much about Quentin’s job, or ambitions, or his life. Just that he was no longer in it. “And he has a strong family at his back. I just wanted to make sure you did as well, and that you know you still have one here. Outside your family’s farm.” Anything else El could have said died right then, turned to ash on his tongue, and he stared at Ted unblinkingly for far too long. He was sincere, Ted Coldwater was always sincere, and - Eliot didn’t have it in him to protest anymore.

Ted pulled him in for his tightest hug yet, and they both pretended that Eliot wasn’t holding back waves of sobs with all the strength of the hoover dam. 

-

Julia had returned at some point, Eliot wasn’t sure when, but she accidentally made enough noise that Eliot sat up straight from where he’d had his head on Ted’s shoulder. Not,  _ not _ crying, but Ted cleared his throat very loudly to cover Eliot sniffing and wiping at his face. Ted clapped him on the shoulder one more time, helping shake some sensation back into his emotionally wracked body, and gave him one last understanding smile before shifting his old bones off the table and wobbling back to put away the last of the stock. Eliot knew he’d miss that the most; the understanding parent that held no malice. He realized that he didn’t quite expect to get to spend alone time with Ted ever again, and that made him more sad than words could say.

Fuck, he needed a minute. He couldn’t leave the tent yet. Eliot knew Ted would give him all the time in the world, maybe even a drink to calm his nerves, but El wanted to leave before anyone else he knew came and made an appearance at the fair. Emotionally drained didn’t even begin to cover how he felt. 

But before he could muster up the courage to stand, Julia was coming up beside him. Very carefully. Side-stepping like he might not see her in his peripheral, until she could quietly slip into the space Ted had just vacated; leaning against the table and looking much less angry than when she had left them to talk. Shit, why did everyone in this town have to eavesdrop? She was looking up at him, her large brown eyes more expressive than was probably fair, and doing that thing with her mouth where it was half parted as she prepared to say words she hadn’t thought of yet. It always took her longer than a beat to figure it out, and yet was always all the more powerful for it.

“You know he went up there.” Eliot looked to her, not sure who she was referring to or what she was getting at. “Quentin, he went to New York. About a year after you left.”

“ _ What _ ?” Eliot wasn’t prepared for that topic change. Quentin had,  _ what _ ? “He… he never told me that.” 

Her mouth quirked to the side in a secretive smile, betraying her amusement. “Yeah, he wouldn’t, would he?”

“But-” Eliot was panicking, and a little beside himself, and he wasn’t sure if it was showing on his face and he  _ really  _ didn’t want it slipping in front of  _ Julia _ . Because, that… that was all he wanted, back then. For Quentin to show up one day; they were both supposed to have run away. “He came to New York,” Eliot murmured, still not believing it. Quentin, in the city, alone. Looking for him.

“He said it was unlike anything he’d ever seen,” Julia continued, fond and sad and feeling for both of them. “Big, and full of people, opportunities, a whole new life. He didn’t know how to fit into it all, he wasn’t ready yet - not like you were. He told me he needed more than an apology to show up on your doorstep. He needed to make something of himself, conquer a new world all his own, and let you find your way as well.” She full on smiled, but this time it was a fondness directed at  _ Eliot  _ and he wasn’t sure what to do with it. How to respond. “In that he was right, you know. Penny linked me your instagram. From the looks of it, opportunity was just what you needed - you took the bull by the balls on that one.” 

He couldn’t even react to the compliment, too side-swiped by it all. Q had come to find him in New York, and went back home to make a life first. He’d had a plan. He always did. He liked plans, it was his comfort zone, where he functioned best; carefully laid steps that he could fret and work out without being on the spot. He had about a million lists spread over hundreds of notebooks. Of course he’d had a plan; Eliot had never known him to give up - until he had. “That’s why he kept sending the papers back. Why didn’t he tell me?” 

“Because you both are too stupid to realize life can’t be all about grand gestures,” Julia said in exasperation, the explanation bursting out of her like she’d been holding it back for much longer than the past few days. “You can’t build, or fix, a relationship on it. It’s nice, once in a while, but every moment together can’t be grand and extravagant and an unforeseen surprise. It’s not sustainable. It’s not… realistic.” It seemed part of this lecture was directed at Quentin, who had spent  _ seven years _ plotting a grand gesture that would never come to fruition because he waited too fucking long and life kept going, but there was a different kind of bone-wariness to Julia’s words. Another facet that she was revealing with her words.

It hit Eliot with a giant force what Julia was underhandedly targeting. She wasn’t one of the people that thought Eliot’s life up in New York was a front, or somehow fake. Playing dress up. She had made that very apparent, and it seemed Quentin was in the same boat. They knew he’d worked his ass off to build a real life up there. No, she was talking about his  _ relationship  _ \- she had said  _ relationship _ , no marriage. She didn’t know the first thing about him and Sebastian! He felt that emotional cloud clearing as the audacity of it all smacked him in the face. She hadn’t even  _ met _ Sebastian, or asked Eliot about him. And there was  _ nothing _ wrong with living in the lap of luxury. Grand gestures were wonderful, and spurred every friendship and relationship he’d ever had forward with full speed.

“That’s easy for you to say,” he said defensively, the draining day still soaking up some of the bite his words would usually have. (Thank  _ God _ , he had just gotten off Julia’s bad side, no need to jump back into the fire on that one.) “You and Kady spend so much time apart, I’m sure every time you see each other again it’s a  _ grand gesture _ .”

“We have a calendar,” Julia deadpanned, half scowling at him. “No secrets. This is our normal, and we don’t enjoy it. We look  _ forward _ to the mundane, the everyday, where I get to live here and I’m home every night. That’s what we want.” She was soft as she said it, longing, and Eliot grimaced at his insensitivity. At least it wasn’t out of character for him by then. “Sure, we’ll have less sex, spend more time doing our own thing - sometimes on opposite sides of the room, even. But THAT is what’s normal, Eliot. Being able to live in each other’s space that easily. The boring, mundane stuff you scoff at is what builds the foundation, let’s us build a life that will last. So we can appreciate each other more, and not spend all our time trying to find a way to make the moment extravagant. It’s nice to just… be there, with them, in the moment. Do you have that? Do you ever do anything boring with Prince Charming?”

Why does everyone keep calling him that?

Eliot didn’t answer her right away, also scowling to match her own. He had  _ plenty _ of mundane days, thank you very much. Most of his designer suits he’d made at home in front of his computer streaming  _ The Crown _ on Netflix, that was his normal lazy weekend. Hours upon hours of just easy, quiet time. Sebastian had never been over there with him for that, Margo had (of course), but they didn’t spend a lot of time in Eliot’s apartment. Any downtime when they got to spend days together were usually spent in Sebastian’s penthouse in town, or their country house Upstate. Eliot bit back a scoff; Julia didn’t know what she was talking about, it was the city. THE city. There was no mundane. Everyone went out; to restaurants, to art shows, when your apartment is the size of a shoebox you had to get out whenever you can.

But there was this… small part of him that did realize that, no, they didn’t get boring days together. Besides lounging on a beach in the South of France, they hadn’t really had any time to relax just the two of them with no agenda. It had been a busy year. But he wasn’t going to tell Julia all that.

“Congrats, you’ve cracked it,” Eliot said sarcastically, instead, and Julia didn’t call him out on it. She knew a win when she saw it. 

“So,” she said, switching topics as she pushed off the table and rounded the bar to put away the beer bottles she’d abandoned an hour ago. “You staying tonight?” She didn’t look up as she slipped slender long-neck bottles into the old metal feeding troughs that would be filled with ice to keep them cool.

“No, I don’t think so,” Eliot managed to get himself to sound more airy and normal than annoyed. “I’ll probably go back to my mom’s house and watch  _ Scandal _ and eat ice cream from the tub.” Julia snorted at his dramatics, biting back a smile, and it eased the tension in Eliot’s own expression. Lessened the heaviness of his shoulders and the pain pressing on his spine. But he couldn't shake the dark cloud hanging overhead, despite his jests. “I won’t be wanted here, and I have to leave for Indianapolis early tomorrow.” He tacked on the last bit, feeling Julia’s heavy gaze watching him deflect.

“I think you should come,” Julia told him, nonchalant and not reacting to Eliot’s surprised stare. “Before you went nuclear last night, everyone was having a good time. You’d be missed.” She shrugged, giving him a knowing look, then disappeared behind the tent flap without so much as a goodbye. Eliot caught sight of Ted back there busy marking inventory for the night (and pretending not to eavesdrop). He didn’t stay after that, got up and made his way back out to the main crowds of the festival. Not sure what to do with himself for the rest of the evening, now that he’d been given an explicit invitation from Julia Wicker.

That usually didn’t hold much room for arguments, and Eliot was no exception. 

-

That night, after all the families with small children straggled home high on sugar and ready to crash, and dusk had finally given way to the inky indigo sky above, the real party started downtown. The carnival was in full swing, live music echoed loud accompanied by laughter and chatter and dancing in the streets, food and booze flowing, the white-yellow glowing lights strung from the buildings lighting up the four square blocks of Knightsville until it was as picture perfect as a movie set. Every inch of it was just as Eliot remembered, but he couldn’t get past the parking lot.

Yes, yes, he caved - alright? He’d paced his tiny guest-size bedroom in his mother’s trailer, throwing all his clothes into random combinations until he finally decided that he was going. He’d mixed up the wardrobe enough to take away his final reason for going in public; spiffed up in black slacks that was made of a thicker material and more boot cut, matched with red suspenders, a white-button down, and he’d stolen one of Dan’s jackets (although he wouldn’t need it much under all the lights and bustling people). So he’d made his way downtown - alone - not even sure if he should text anyone. His mom was with her friends, Daniel was finishing up the evening rodeo, and his friends - ex-friends, awkward acquaintances that may or may not hate him, he doesn't even know anymore - could be anywhere. But he did shoot out texts, in the end. He messaged Alice, and Julia, asking where everyone was at: surprise, surprise, Ted’s tent. He knew that, of course he did.

But there he was, still standing in the parking lot, not ready to step out of the shadows and make his way down there. He took way too long, the night kept stretching further and further, and Eliot was backtracking fast. Telling himself he shouldn’t go - fuck, he never even apologized to Kady or Penny or Josh either, not even a shitty text message one. He wasn't sure he had it in him for more heart to hearts that night. And his flask was empty. 

Before he could finish talking himself into getting back in his car, Julia was suddenly there, and she didn’t even scold him. She just grabbed his sleeve and dragged him into the fray. Which was the only way Eliot could describe it. A bombardment of lights and voices, country music, hay and beer, assaulting his senses in this nauseating combination of nostalgia and regret. But the nostalgia was slowly winning out. Every person had dragged anything that could be considered a seat to line the street curbs; and not just tailgates: hay bales, legit couches and waiting room chairs, beer coolers and broken down art stalls. It seemed like everyone within the 30 mile tri-county radius had made it out, piled onto every available surface and laughing so loud it echoed into the sky. Julia refused to let him go until they were all the way to the far liquor vendor street,  _ after _ pulling him through the haphazard gate and entering the tent space. The white flaps were rolled up, and the poles were wrapped in white Christmas lights giving the space a warmth and brightness found nowhere else in town.

The makeshift bar looked even better under those lights, polished to a gorgeous shine, and the set up looked very good. The bar stools were filled with familiar faces, and every one spun around as soon as Julia hollered at them, “Look who I found! Hanging around all hesitant to come join us for a drink.” 

Oh, that explained her lack of commentary and rough handling. She’d already been drinking. Julia was very goal-oriented after a couple beers.

“How is your liver even functioning?” Penny asked in all seriousness, and very much astonished Eliot was as cleaned up and awake as he was. 

“A medical mystery, I’m sure,” Quentin said. Wow, Eliot was  _ really _ late. Q was already a few in if his tongue was that loose. He watched Eliot stand here, like he wasn’t sure what to think either. He was also next to Alice, half using his body to block her from sight, taking a couple glances at her as well. 

“Any reason anyone can think of why Eliot would be uncomfortable to come over here?” Julia asked, because she was a little shit at heart and alcohol really brought it out in her. She also looked between Alice and Eliot, but with that carefully concealed smirk (that wasn’t really concealed at all, by that point) that said she already knew the answer.

“I mean, I could start a list?” Alice began in jest, her eyes sparkling mirth and it snapped the tension strung tight through Eliot’s body. He rolled his eyes to the sky and sighed loudly. “Josh’s breath isn’t the best right now.” 

“HEY! They had onion blossoms!” Josh shouted at her, the evidence piled on the metal table in front of him as he pointed at her accusingly. “And you ate like half of it!” His incredulousness lightened the mood, as did Alice’s very obvious smile she was trying to smother.

Quentin leaned over towards Alice and asked her quietly, “You’re good?” Eliot only saw because he was watching them probably more closely than he should have been, and he was still too well acquainted with the shape of Q’s mouth. Alice just smiled at him softly, touched at his concern, because they had been friends first - way before she and Eliot had gotten so tight in middle school. 

“Yes, we’re good,” she said, indicating Eliot and her quick glance caught his, smile brightening a fraction. Quentin nodded, looking more at ease about it, then took his own quick, darting look at Eliot that burned right through him.

“Guess I’ll get out of your seat, then,” he said to Eliot, with not one drop of resentment. Eliot felt that too. “I think you owe this lady a drink.”

Alice scrunched her nose cutely and leaned far away from Eliot dramatically as he slipped into Quentin’s seat - passing by much too close to Quentin for comfort. He could feel the charge between them, though they didn’t touch. 

“That’s sweet of you and all,” Alice went on with her terrible jokes. “But he’s  _ really  _ not my type.”

“Ouch, I thought I was everyone’s type,” Eliot faux-pouted. 

“Oh honey, you were the only one with a working pick-up in high school. Of course they told you that.” Everyone within earshot dissolved into laughter, and the chatting recommenced as if they had never been interrupted. Alice ordered Eliot a drink, which Eliot paid for - sliding a card to Ted across the bar and nodding at everyone without saying a word. 

As the night wore on, the groups split and intermingled here and there, rearranging themselves with the tides of conversation. Eliot stuck to Alice’s side for the most part, but he felt himself settling more into himself than before. Into a place that was comfortable, much more comfortable than he’d been even back when Carthage had been his home address, and he continued to be amazed by how much everyone had grown and changed while he was away. His friends were… pretty incredible people. He’d spent a solid half hour talking with just Josh over cigarettes, which he didn’t think they’d really done since senior year. He asked Eliot about New York, his job and the area he lived in, and Eliot asked about Josh’s kids - if they’d ever been to the festivals there in town. It had been a somber conversation, but Josh was always on the upbeat even when the tides weren’t in his favor. Even if he had to wait for his eldest, Lauren, to be old enough to come out there on her own - he knew they would love the fair. 

“How long would that be,” Eliot had asked, passing a blunt he had not planned on smoking that night.

“Another twelve years - but it goes faster than you think man. You’ll find out,” Josh smirked at him and Eliot just shook his head, not feeling like he was the father type. Josh just shrugged in response, too mellow to push it, but he still looked like he knew something Eliot didn’t.

Not long after that Eliot ended up with Alice cuddled up to his side under Dan’s jacket for warmth, chatting up Julia and Kady. The married couple was entangled and looked very warm themselves; sinking further into each other the deeper the group got into conversation. Julia was actually finishing up a doctorate, a fucking  _ doctarate _ , down in Texas - AND she was teaching down there. “Meteorology and oceanography, I’ve been working with the masters students on tracking hurricanes and storm patterns down there,” she could have talked their ears off about clouds and storms if Kady hadn’t kept feeding her steady little sips of Jack and Coke. She winked at Eliot and Alice from where she sat, kissing the back of Julia’s head and brushing her hair over her shoulder. 

“And you?” Eliot had asked Kady, raising his hand for the waitress to come to them for another round. “I don’t think anyone would have bet money on you being a cop, 10 years back. What changed?”

Kady looked down at where her right hand was entwined with Julia’s, and somehow still had a sad smile on her face when she said “Travis.” Eliot swallowed the last of his whiskey with a hard gulp. Fuck - that’s right. He’d forgotten. “You heard?”

“Penny and Josh gossip like old ladies,” Eliot said, gently. Penny shouted  _ I heard that _ from across the bar and flipped him off. Eliot just blew a kiss at him in response. But he sobered when he turned back to Kady. “I know I didn’t say it when it mattered, but I’m sorry for your loss dear.” 

“Thanks, I know you knew him a little better than the others,” she said fondly, but Alice choked on her beer and Eliot raised an eyebrow. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He always did like you best, you know,” Kady grinned, all teeth and mischief.

“Scandalous,” Eliot said, aghast, as Alice giggled next to him. “How dare-” but he was smiling too. Travis and him had had this easy flirtatious thing going on that always riled Q up to no end, but it wasn’t serious. Eliot had always had suspicions that Travis had been holding a candle for someone else, but he would keep his guesses to himself. He tried to take a drink from his empty glass, to help swallow back the emotion bubbling up his throat, and instead he was left looking at the bottom forlornly. He was really sorry he missed his chance to tell the man goodbye. 

Kady just nodded, knowing the look well. She’d seen it in the mirror often. “I miss him, too. He… he OD’d, a few years ago, and after that. I wanted to do something with my life, in honor of his being cut so short.” Eliot did his best to smile at that, and raised his empty glass to clink with hers - letting the woman drain her drink before he lifted his hand to flag the waitress once more.

“Another round of whiskey, and bring the bottle, would you please? Thanks, love.” The waitress grinned and spun on her heel, whisked 4 glasses from the behind the bar and an unopened bottle, bringing them all back before anyone could protest Eliot’s order. Eliot was already a great tipper, but he appreciated her enthusiasm. 

“Oh hun, didn’t you learn your lesson last night?” Kady chided, giving him a very pointed look. Julia and Alice were oddly quiet about his request. Maybe they had had enough for a bit. 

“Hush, you,” Eliot teased back, too wrapped up in looking at the back of the whiskey bottle. “I just wanted to know who makes this. It’s good.” 

“Well, everything is local,” Julia told him, sipping the last dredges of her old drink. 

“Yeah, but this is  _ good _ , like top shelf good. I wonder if I can get it in New York.” The bottle was dark matte black, gorgeously shaped, and from the description on the back it was brewed just South of them closer to the Kentucky border. The liquor in the glass was even pretty to look at. It was golden corn whiskey with hints of dark amber swirling through it, and tasted so pleasantly burned and aged it didn’t match the years printed on the bottle.  _ Thunderhead Reserve Bourbon Whiskey _ . Fitting, Eliot thought, because there was this undernote there in the burn of the alcohol that danced on his tongue, sparked like electricity and tasted like ozone. He could drink it all night, any day of the week. 

“Oh, maybe you should ask Q-” Kady stated, but Julia elbowed her sharply in the ribs and her words died on her exhale. “ _ Jesus, _ babe!” Julia glared at her, and Eliot looked between them all - including Alice, who was buried in her glass and pretending not to notice them. He then turned to where he knew Q was sitting talking to Josh and Penny, because he was always aware of where Quentin was. At all times. He could feel the other man’s eyes on him as well, warmer and more careful than they’d been the past few days, observing and… longing, if he dared to name it that. Eliot didn’t want to name it that. Because he knew he was sometimes caught watching Q in the same way. He wanted to talk to the man, really talk to him, without the divorce hanging over them - but it was so fresh, still painful to the touch, and there was no room for all the other things in their past that needed to be cleared up. They might never get their chance, now, and that made Eliot far, far too sad for how sober he still was. 

That was probably why Julia didn’t want him talking to Quentin, or looking at Quentin, or noticing him - as if he could do anything but. Eliot instead turned to Alice and said in suspicion, “I’m missing something, aren’t I?”

“Nothing important,” Alice assured him, and it sounded like a lie - but the crowd across the street went into a sudden and loud uproar as someone walked onto the live music stage. And then, a piano solo started up, and Alie was on her feet. “OH IT’S TARON!”

“Who’s Taron?” Eliot asked, jerked back to avoid getting knocked over by Alice’s excitement.

“He covers Elton John songs, he’s really good. You’ll love him, El! C’mon!” and then Alice was yanking him to his feet as well, practically running as she dragged him towards the stage. “You’re dancing with me!” 

“Guess we’re dancing,” Eliot yelled back at Kady and Julia. Kady was laughing until Julia pulled her towards the stage, and soon a bunch of other people were following suit after hearing Eliot’s exclamation. The blonde kid with the square jaw belted out  _ Tiny Dancer _ like he was born to sing it, and Alice twirled herself under Eliot’s hand that she stretched high above her head, already singing along to the lyrics. 

Elton had been kind of their thing; the whole group’s, but it had definitely started with Quentin and Eliot. Screaming songs that in no way were ever meant to be screamed out rolled down windows going too fast down country roads. They must have made an impact on someone, because the cover band sure had a newer bop beneath the familiar riffs and melodies. They did sound good, but Eliot could barely hear the lead singer as they weren’t the only ones singing as he spun Alice out in the middle of the sectioned off street. Belting out words to songs he’d known by heart for forever. Giggling and over-dramatic as they ever were, to the point of silliness with their inhibitions greased up in whiskey. Eliot couldn’t remember the last time he’d sung in front of another person, which was a damn shame because he had an amazing voice if he did say so himself. 

_ “And you can hear me, when I say softly, slowly, HOLD ME CLOSER, TINY DANCER _ ,” there was definitely a loud crowd drunkenly crooning out. It would have only been worse if they’d been playing  _ Country Roads, Take Me Home _ . Alice and Eliot weren’t the only ones out there, although no one could match up to their full on La-La Land steps and spins, showing off as Julia stuck her tongue out at them from within Kady’s arms. 

Eliot lost track of how many times they ended up switching partners, the songs blurring from  _ Tiny Dancer, _ to  _ Honky Cat _ , to  _ Crocodile Rock _ almost seamlessly, and by then he had Alice back side-stepping like pros. It was somewhere towards the end of another upbeat mix that he saw Penny cut in to dance with Kady, since Julia had dragged Quentin in from the sidelines and was doing some terribly white synchronized dance they probably made up while drunk at 16. 

But that didn’t last long, Q didn’t remember the steps as well as Julia did, so on a drunken mission for a dance partner, she stole Alice away from Eliot with a flashing grin - and Alice just shrugged, like a traitor. Never one to pass up dancing with a gorgeous girl. 

And Eliot - well, he found himself too happy to care, he could handle a ‘dancing with myself’ number, so he spun around all smiles and came face to face with Quentin. Abandoned in the middle of the street-wide dance floor by Julia. 

Then, because fate was a bitch like that, the cover band dropped straight into  _ I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues _ , and no one around them missed a beat slipping into a slow dance. Leaving Eliot and Quentin looking awkward as preteens in a school gymnasium - talk about flashbacks to school dances. Eliot was… fully aware of how many people are around them, besides their friends. He remembered a time when he wouldn’t have been brave enough to ask Q to dance in public like this; but now that he’s confident enough to not give two fucks, it was such a shame that even  _ more _ circumstances had popped up to keep him from proving just that. He owed Quentin about six years of missed middle and high school dances, at the very least. 

Quentin looked at him cautiously, hands slipping into his pockets, calculating how long he should wait before beating a hasty retreat; and Eliot had stalled, just waiting for the other man to run. They only j _ ust _ became officially divorced, everything was too raw and much,  _ much  _ too soon. But - damnit, he probably wouldn’t ever get this chance for this situation ever again.

As soon as Quentin went to turn away, accepting whatever weird rejection by omission he was justifying in his head, Eliot sighed loudly and said “fuck it” very audibly. Surprising Quentin into stopping, those darting, dark eyes looking at him from beneath that curtain of long hair that had slipped from its pony-tail holder. Q was even more shocked to see Eliot with his hand extended his direction, asking Quentin to dance with him. Eliot half expected him to tell him to go fuck himself, but then Quentin surprised him too. Taking his hand and letting Eliot pull him into a close slow dance that ached as much as it burned. 

“ _ Just stare into space,  _ _  
_ _ picture my face in your hands,  _ _  
_ _ live for each second without hesitation,  _ _  
_ _ and never forget I’m your man. _ ”

They didn’t say anything, although Quentin looked like he wanted to, and Eliot could feel words bubbling up his throat threatening to spill out with every turn in their dance. So instead he traced Quentin’s face with his eyes, from every angle as the other man looked away, had his face hovering near his chest like he wanted to rest against it and wasn’t sure if he could anymore. If he wanted to. All that did was have him ducking it down where Eliot couldn’t look at him, so El spun him out and then twirled him back in so they pressed even closer. Melting into each other on instinct, still able to move so well together it was a flourishing dance all it’s own, and this time Quentin saw something in Eliot’s face that he took as permission. He rested his head right where he could hear Eliot’s heart, and still turn his face away; El wasn’t quite sure he wanted to see the look in the other man’s eyes right then. His chest felt bruised and beaten and swollen from the way his heart was ripping itself to pieces. This hurt more than he had thought it would, because he couldn’t let go of Quentin if his life depended on it.

“ _ Wait on me girl,  _ _  
_ _ cry in the night if it helps,  _ _  
_ _ but more than ever I simply love you,  _ _  
_ _ more than I love life itself. _ ” 

“El-” Quentin said, mumbled into his shirt - a threat and a dare and a promise all at once, with one syllable. But he couldn’t bring himself to continue, and Eliot couldn’t urge him to try. No matter how much he wanted to know. So he rested his chin on top of Quentin’s head, and let out an exhale so long and slow he had to count beats in between to get his racing heart to calm down. They weren’t really dancing much by that point, Eliot slipping further to rest his cheek against Quentin’s head and hold him close, trying to leave the imprint - and making it feel far too much like a goodbye. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? Goodbye. He was leaving in the morning, he was getting married in a few months, this was it.

But it sure had been fun, back then; years and years of it. They had a good run, for as bad as it ended. Eliot found himself swallowing hard, not saying anything and still felt like he was lying through his teeth.

“ _ And I guess that’s why they call it the blues, _ _  
_ _ Time on my hands could be time spent with you, _ _  
_ _ Laughing like children, living like lovers, _ __  
_ Rolling like thunder - under the covers, _ _  
_ __ And that’s why they call it the blues. ”

Yeah, they’d had a good run.

“I can’t do this, Eliot,” Quentin said, suddenly and half-whispered. He broke away, ripping himself from Eliot’s side, and not even looking at him as he disappeared behind slow dancing couples. Leaving Eliot alone in the middle of the crowd. Eliot tried to see him over the dozens of heads bent close to each other, but it seemed as soon as he could catch the breath stolen from him - Quentin was gone.

He didn’t stay there longer than a beat, taking long strides to get away from questioning stares and pity filled eyes. He got to the sidewalk in record time, and realized he didn’t even know where to go. So he just started walking the crowds, away from the stage until the music was just whitenoise among the rest, and searched the people around him for a face he knew. Any face at all. Anyone.

And of course, the first one he found was his mother. 

\--


	12. xi. The Mistake

<

-

Quentin didn’t go home, either, not after that. He couldn’t go back to that house, where he’d been putting off getting rid of all of Eliot’s things - all of their things - for so long that now it didn’t even matter. He ended up in one of his hide away spots from high school and directly after, sitting behind the rail up on the water tower. He didn’t often share  _ why _ it had always been one of his hideaway spots, only Eliot really knew the reason he’d sit up there for hours. Which was also why he was confident it would be the one place he wouldn’t see the other man again that night. 

Unfortunately, the spot was very obvious and not thirty minutes went by before his friends had joined him with a couple six packs and a fifth of whiskey. He knew he wasn’t good by himself, so he appreciated the company as they all sat there with their legs dangling off the railed platform, looking out over the festival as it started to wrap up to a close. Quentin spent most of that time staring off into the distance, contemplating far too many things for this late an hour.

He wasn’t sure if he’d made the right decision, caving into Eliot’s pleas for the bill of divorcement - no matter how hard he tried to demand it. Not without him knowing everything. It wasn’t really fair to either of them, but Quentin just couldn’t find the fight in him after the bar, or the house. Everything. Now, sitting there and remembering what it felt like to have Eliot’s hand in his as he danced with him that night, he wasn’t sure of anything. All of the accomplishments he’d done the past few years, in that moment, felt like a waste - an empty gesture to no one. Even though he knew he’d bettered himself along the way, and he should be proud of that. It was just hard to see, with emotions clouding his sight. 

“You want to go back to your dad’s bar? It should be nice and quiet,” Julia asked him, leaning in with her beer bottle still in hand, nudging his shoulder with her own. Quentin couldn’t even find it in himself to put up a convincing half-smile, he just shook his head and pulled from the beer someone had handed him at some point. 

“Want to go to the sandbar and blow stuff up?” Penny said on her other side, leaning forward to be seen, and Julia sent him a glare. “What? Not like we can get in trouble for it, everyone is here or wasted.”

“Want to go to South Glen Lanes? It’s like an hour away, but I think they’re open until 3 am,” Josh said next to Penny, and everyone groaned out a ‘no’. 

“Want to drag race one of the deputy cruisers?” Kady said, deadpan like she was serious, and Penny chucked his bottle cap at her. Mouthing off to not even joke about that, because he’d take that up in a heartbeat. Their banter turned to white noise in Quentin’s ears, and not even Julia’s pointed stare was going to shake him from his headspace. 

Without even meaning to, he found Eliot in the sparse crowd; leaning against a lamp post by his mom and Daniel, one foot kicked back behind the other and staring off into nothing as well. Weren’t they a pair. 

“I think I’ll call it a night,” he said, not even finishing his beer as he aimed and dropped it into the open dumpster at the foot of the tower. It shattered inside, a pleasant sound to match how shattered he felt inside and out. He stood up, waving to the others as they chorused ‘night Q’ in various tones, and started to shimmy around the edge of the tower towards the metal ladder down. Old habit had him looking up, checking for cops, despite the fact the sheriff was sitting twelve feet away from him, and he saw Eliot’s mom waving at two people across the street. Quentin froze, his breath caught up tight in his body, constricting his chest. “Oh no.” 

He clambered down the ladder as fast as he could. But he knew hard as he tried, he wouldn’t make it in time.

-

Eliot had found his mom and Daniel not too long after leaving the concert, and stuck with them the rest of the night. He wanted to go back home, had decided that he’d had enough MidWestern festivities to last him the rest of his lifetime, but Daniel had convinced him to stay. Actively kept telling him to hang around, as Eliot kept saying “I think I’ll head back” only to be shot down and given another reason to stay. Another beer, another familiar face, another story; feeble attempts, but Eliot stayed anyway. He didn’t have much fight left in him, anymore. Even when his mom started getting in on the action.

“You need to see Alex and Cindy, and Nate if he’s around!” Because of course, that sounded like the perfect way to end his perfectly shitty night. Visits with his other brothers. The ignorance in his family was just as terribly damaging as everything else had been, because half of them didn’t believe what he was going through was really that bad, and the rest just didn’t care. Eliot bit his tongue and nodded along when his mom lamented about how he had ‘missed’ the kids while he was out and about, which Eliot was a little downtrodden about. He didn’t have much of an opinion on children, but he wouldn’t have minded meeting his nieces and nephews. 

It was around 11:00 when everything was starting to wind down a bit. Back in New York a lot of parties didn’t  _ start _ until then, but that’s what you get in a farming town. They were about ready to pack it up and head back to the trailer, when his mom stopped on a dime and waved madly across the street. “ALEX! CINDY! OVER HERE!” Eliot looked over in time to see his brother (older, a little more rounded, a nice beard going) exchange a look with his wife, both reluctantly crossing to where he and Dan and their mom were. Which was a little interesting, Eliot admitted; wondering what in the world his mom and Daniel hadn’t been telling him about the family situation since he’d left. He wouldn’t have blamed Alex for wanting to put as much distance between their parents and them what with the kids being so young. Eliot couldn’t even imagine their dad being anything close to a good grandpa. He would be reluctant to talk to mom, too. 

“Hey, mom,” Alex said, hugging her warmly despite Eliot’s suspicions, and shaking Daniel’s hand with an added clap on the back. His eyes slid up and down Eliot, standing there with his hands in his pockets, but didn’t take a step closer. “Eliot. Good to see you.” He sounded like it was anything but, and didn’t bother to reach for Eliot’s hand.

Oh, well. That explained a lot.

“Alexander, always a pleasure,” Eliot said, airy and behind a shielded wall that he’d built faster than he thought he was capable of. This was a strangely unfamiliar scenario, Alex  _ pretending _ to be cordial, so Eliot would at least play nice. For mom. Of course she wouldn’t see it the way it was. “And Cindy, you look lovely.” She made a face like she wanted to smile at the compliment and couldn’t convince herself to do so. Well then. That was about enough social interaction for the night, Eliot thought to himself. “Sorry I missed my nieces and nephews, I would have loved to meet them.” They made noncommittal noises, and Eliot tried to tell himself he didn’t give one single fuck what they thought.

But no, that didn’t quite sit with him. Not anymore. Eliot had done a LOT of arguing over the past few days. He’d thought he was all tired out when it came to venting or ranting to the people who deserved it most, and to those who hadn’t deserved it at all, but something about Alex’s cool look - with eyes that were far too much like their father’s - had his blood boiling. Had his suspicions bubbling up, a worry for a smattering of kids he hadn’t even met yet that would be stuck growing up in the Indiana countryside just like he had. He wasn’t going to be able to hold his tongue this time. “Saves you from having to explain who I am, I suppose.” 

“Oh Eliot, they know who you are!” his mom chimed in, unaware of the battle of wills happening unblinkingly between two of her sons. Alex even dared to add his two cents in as well.

“Of course they do. You’re in all the family photos.” That was  _ not _ as convincing or benevolent an argument as he was trying to make it sound. Eliot narrowed his eyes, not planning on letting Alex get away with the charade.

“But other than that?”

“Oh, they ask about you, baby,” his mother went on, thinking that Eliot was far more hurt than he was letting on. But Eliot wasn’t hurt, he was angry. “Just the other day Annabell was asking-”

“ _ Mom _ ,” Alex hissed, snapping at her harshly, and Cindy was outright glaring at her. The words died in his mom’s mouth - and now Eliot was livid. “Not now.”

“Why not now?” Eliot said too loudly. “You have something you want to get off your chest, Alex, now is your chance.” This could very well be about Eliot not returning home for the funeral, or never being there for the family in general the past decade, but Eliot knew better. Deep down, it was all too obvious. Out of all his brothers, Alex was always the one that tormented Eliot the most growing up. Hadn’t let up until Eliot had moved out of the house, and sometimes even after that. They both knew what this was all about. 

“We don’t blame you for staying away,” Alex said, surprising Eliot at least a little bit. Was he really acknowledging what Eliot thought he was? “It was better that you did. It isn’t safe for you around here. But we don’t have to agree with the way you live your life. You made your choice.”

Eliot’s expression turned to stone, and his eye threatened to twitch violently. Were - they were actually playing the  _ choice _ card? Who the FUCK did Alex think he was kidding? Eliot knew the look on his face reflected every word as he went through the motions of processing what had just come out of his older brother’s mouth. Beside him, poor mom and Daniel were a little slower to realize what he was getting at. But when it did, any illusion they were trying to hold on to that this whole animosity was about the family or the farm vanished like a wisp of smoke. 

But the  _ hypocrisy _ of it all, the sheer audacity. 

“Choice?” he rasped out. “You want to talk about choice, Alex? Okay, let’s.” He crossed the space between them in two quick strides, coming right up on him, and Cindy looked like she was about to get between them to stop a fight. She really didn’t know Eliot at all, that was painfully apparent, not even close. Otherwise she would have known he wouldn’t take a swing, no matter how much he wanted to. He’d had fists flying at his face too much as a kid to ever voluntarily enter that kind of situation - but he was a new man, now, and he was going to say his peace. Like he’d said, now was the chance. 

“What did you  _ choose _ , Alex, when we were kids? What did you  _ always _ choose?” Alex looked like he was about to retaliate, but Eliot held up his hand to stop him from uttering a word. “Don’t, even try. You and I both know the truth. What did you choose when those kids beat me up and threw me in a school dumpster for pressing my slacks? What did you  _ choose _ when dad beat me senseless because he thought I got off  _ too easy _ ? What did you  _ CHOOSE _ when mom was too scared to take me to the hospital?! Or any of the dozens of times before and after that?” The silence was deafening on all fronts, and Eliot breathed so heavily it felt like fire. “I hope to God you  _ choose _ better for your own kids, than you did for me. Or for any of us.” 

He wasn’t the only one who had faced the wrath of their father; he just got the brunt of it. Alex swallowed and didn’t stop glaring, a sheen behind his eyes threatening a human emotion Eliot didn’t want to interact with. His wife could clean up that mess.

“Nice seeing you,  _ big brother _ ,” he seethed, watching as a hand curled around Alex’s arm to help pull him back. “Cindy,” he said in acknowledgement, as a goodbye, not as harshly. But not nicely, either.

“Eat shit, Eliot,” she spit, but she looked rattled. Apparently, Alex hadn’t told her much about their upbringing; and it hadn’t reared its ugly head with their own children. She was speaking from a maternal standpoint, defending his accusation about how they treated their children. Good. Then Eliot could stalk off into the night and not feel guilt about his nameless nieces and nephews and what they might be going through. Maybe someone with the Waugh name would be able to be raised right.

He turned away and left them all standing there, putting as much distance as he could as fast he could without running. So he didn’t see Quentin coming up to them, having seen everything, or the wrecked look on his mom’s face. Daniel staring at the ground like if he tried hard enough it would swallow him up. 

Today had been too much, it was all too much. He never should have come home.

This wasn’t home.

New York was home.

He couldn’t even go back to his mom’s place, not yet. Not while every atom in his body was charged with too many emotions to settle anytime soon. He had nowhere else to go, really. But - there was one last place he hadn’t been to yet, that he hadn’t even thought about before that very moment.

It was vibrant in his mind, called to him in his blood, and Eliot knew he needed to see it. Real and tangible, before he left. One final part of his old life that needed to be put to rest. One last space of remembrance that needed a real, honest goodbye.

-

Knightsville High School looked very much the same from when Eliot had left it ten years ago, with only a few added on buildings that distorted the memories in his mind. He used to know this place like the back of his hand. For someone who wasn’t involved in sports or student council, or theater (that much), he’d spent a  _ lot _ of time there. It was the one place that his family couldn’t reach him, where he got to learn to be his own separate person, and it was where all his friends were. The first group of people to accept him for him. 

They had been  _ that _ group, every school had one: the outcasts, the weirdos, a bunch of AP kids even though he was never one himself, and the ones who just didn’t fit in. Strange, when he looked back on it now, to realize that it had taken them  _ years _ of trial and error to figure out what they really all had in common - besides being in the ‘other’ category - was most of them were queer. But that was also just  _ painfully  _ Midwestern of them. Not bringing something so central to themselves into the light, but still huddling together for warmth all the same. He’d relied on his friends more than his family, more times than he could count, growing up. 

The school was locked, of course, Eliot didn’t even try the doors. There should have been a security guard in a beaten up golf cart rolling around the grounds as well, but he had to either be asleep or down at Old Settler’s Days. Or both. Bad decision all around, there, because if Eliot had been a teenager this would have been the perfect time to sneak in and do some vandalism without getting caught. Not like there was anything else to do in this damn town.

Shit, no wonder he had a record.

Eliot smirked, keeping an eye out for young ne'er-do-wells as he snuck around, not there to relive that part of his childhood. Instead he went in the opposite direction of the classroom buildings, and slipped through a rip in the chain link fence surrounding the football fields. A location passed down from upperclassmen to the youngin’s for years and years. He skirted the actual field, not there for that either. The lights weren’t even on, giving the field an eerie, ghostly feeling over the expanse of fresh green and white painted stripes. Eliot silently made his way to the bleachers, memory guiding him to their spot; the place that he had been so many times it was a wonder no one had ever gotten caught. They smoked there, they drank there, they made out there and did other scandalous things that probably didn’t need to be mentioned or thought about - and it was the one place Eliot always knew he could hide. No matter the hour.

The section was actually under the bleaches, the entrance found through a grove of bushes around the back and hidden from sight. Their hideout about another third of the way down the bleachers near the forty yard line. When he ducked under the metal stairways, stepping over the supports in the dark, he was happy to find everything pretty much exactly how they’d left it. There were still paint buckets and plastic milk crates littered about used as seats, crushed empty packs of cigarettes and crumpled single-serve chip bags. He couldn’t tell if it was from a new wave of students, or pieces of his old life scattered on the ground - left abandoned to waste away. A haven no one would ever find again.

But, as much as he loved seeing it all still there, Eliot wasn’t here for his hiding spot either. Not really. It had been the start of the thought, but there was something else he needed to see one last time. He was there for the underside of the bleachers. Covered in graffiti and messages, sharpies and paint coating the metal in a collage that mirrored the night sky it was so dense. Overlapping words, phrases, names in hearts, disses and jests, phone numbers that no longer worked. And right there, at the perfect height, always eye level for him and not many else, was what he hoped to see. Still there. Hidden among the messages.

“Eliot?” 

Quentin picked his way through the meal beams in the same step pattern they all knew by heart, to avoid knocking the supports for the heavy bleachers, and Eliot wanted to say he was surprised to see him. But somehow he wasn’t. Not when he was standing there staring at their message, their motto. Their promise.

“This was always my favorite spot to run away to,” Eliot told him, not able to look away from the inscription. “To remind me that no matter what happened, or what anyone said, we’d always have this.” He’d drawn a terrible skyline of a castle above it, the trunk of a tree below it with a clockface scratched into the roots, and in flowing Trademark print Eliot had written the phrases that was theirs and theirs alone. Play on words aside. 

**_Forever & Further_ **

They had whispered that, as a promise to each other, from the time they were so young they had no concept of ‘forever’. Eliot had said it to Quentin at the courthouse in Indianapolis when they’d run away to get married. Quentin had whispered it to him before he’d gone into the hospital for the third time. It was supposed to be their rock, their reminder that they would never give up. And yet - that’s just what they had done. 

“What happened, Q?” he murmured, not sure where everything had gotten so twisted. Not after the past few days. Not after they danced that night.

“You left me for New York,” Quentin told him, no malice in his words, and so Eliot mirrored the tone. Sad and quiet.

“You left me first.”

Barely a whisper, but in the quiet beneath the bleachers there was no need for raised voices. Not anymore. 

Quentin moved to sit down on one of the milk crates, his old spot - all those years ago - and motioned for Eliot to sit next to him. Eliot didn’t know if he could handle what they needed to talk about, after the day he’d just endured. After the dance, and the confrontations, after mailing the dicorce papers as fast as money would allow. Not when Quentin looked so much like home, sitting there surrounded by nostalgia and ready to speak to him like a grown up. Like Eliot hadn’t tried to do everything he could to ruin them. 

But Eliot sat next to him. Lowered himself carefully into a seat cushioned by old wrestling mats, and he couldn’t even bother to think about everything the material must be infested with. But somehow, even with a good foot of distance between them, he and Q were sitting far too close. He could smell his aftershave, the woodshavings that still clung to his clothes, beer and smoke and leather from his belt and boots. But underneath it all, he smelled like Quentin, a scent all his own and not one Eliot needed to be reminded of. He turned his head to face forward, and it forced him to tilt his vision up so  **_Forever & Further_ ** was staring him in the face. At an angle, but it was still there - they both knew it was still there.

“You really thought I left you behind?” Quentin started, picking at the cuffs of his sleeves and looking at the ground. Eliot didn’t really know how to respond to that without sounding like an asshole. “I was in a bad place, El, I wasn’t able to figure out how to live with what was going on in my head.” Yeah, anything he could have said then would have made him sound like an  _ absolute _ asshole. Quentin didn’t need to feel like he had to defend himself about that to  _ Eliot _ \- God, not after everything they had gone through. 

Quentin’s depression really hit a high peak after his 20th birthday, in the sense that he hit the lowest of lows. Far below the basement levels and into a place they hadn’t even known existed. No amount of preparation, or medical books from the library, or therapy appointments had been able to keep it at bay.  _ Clinical Depression _ , is what the doctor had told them, and at the time it was really hard to wrap their heads around the fact that this wasn’t something that was  _ caused _ by anything, or something that would just come and go like a phase. It was a disease, it was something they had to live with - that Quentin had to learn to live with. It wasn’t a good time for them, but they had had each other, and Eliot had tried to be there for Quentin throughout every high and low. 

For better or worse, for sickness and in health.

“I know you were,” Eliot said to his statement, quiet and hoping he was at least conveying that much. Quentin didn’t need to defend his state of mind. That had never been the problem. “I knew you had to work through a lot of shit, and I was fine with waiting, Q. I would have waited as long as you needed. But - you shut me out. You revoked my visiting rights. You extended your stay, again, without telling me.” It had been a slap in the face, at a very crucial time, and as much as Eliot had wanted to stay and wait Quentin out - everything that happened after that had just shoved them both over the edge.

He just wasn’t sure what had made Quentin push them off first.

“You were going to New York,” Quentin parroted, still quiet and resigned and it wasn’t until that very moment - that it hit Eliot. 

He made the missing connection, seven years too fucking late. 

Quentin must had learned that Eliot was planning on going to New York before he’d even left. Somehow, during his institution stay. A temporary situation that had started as a precautionary 30 days, ‘just in case’, and stretched to 90 - and then indefinite as far as he could tell. A quarter of the year gone with no end in sight. But still even locked up, he’d learned Eliot was going to New York. 

“Who told you?” 

“Does it matter, now?” Quentin muttered.

“Yes, actually, it does,” Eliot said with that tell-tale burn to every corner of his face, the edges of his words. Frustration and the unfairness of it all settling in deeply. “Because I wasn’t leaving you behind, Q, I was going to set up our home. Our life. You always said we were going to leave, we talked about New York for years. You were supposed to come with me, when you were ready.”

“We already had a home, Eliot. Here.” Quentin said, staring pointedly. 

“I couldn’t stay here. You know why I couldn’t stay here,” Eliot near whispered, voice horse and pleading. That wasn’t fair, Carthage wasn’t home. It was a deathtrap. He and Quentin were supposed to get  _ out _ , before it was too late. 

In the years out of high school, Eliot’s father had hit a lot of walls and suffered a lot of losses with the farm. He had begun to pressure Eliot, who hadn’t actually left to pursue his dreams like he’d claimed he would, to move back home and work the farm. With his dad and his brothers. The  _ last _ thing in the world Eliot would ever want to do, nor would he ever leave Quentin to move back  _ home _ . His father had been insistent, ruthlessly so, and Eliot refused to budge as long as he could. 

But it was hard to avoid the man when they lived right down the road. 

At Quentin’s silence, Eliot looked over at him and was stunned by the array of emotion there. Quentin always knew about Eliot’s father, even some of the worst of it - better than anyone, even Ted - but there were still parts he could never understand. Not without being there, and Eliot had done everything in his power to make sure that never happened. When he moved out, and he and Q got that house, it wasn’t a permanent thing - they were supposed to get out before his father could try and drag him back. But they took too long.

“I tried to tell you a few times, and that day I came to warn you, and you wouldn’t let me in,” Eliot said, his words catching a little and shaking. 

“Dan gave me the cliffnotes,” Q mumbled, still not betraying the key emotion there.

“Well then he gave you some shitty ones, because I doubt my dad told him what actually happened out there.” Every single atom in his body was threatening to tremble to pieces, he never wanted to think about that day ever again. About what could have happened, the implications made, the  _ threats _ , the lengths he knew weren’t out of the realm of possibility. He didn’t want to see it, relive it. But - 

Eliot took a deep breath, forcing himself to remember. Because Quentin deserved to know. 

It had started out as a good day too, that made it all worse. He had been accepted to Parson’s School of Fashion Design in New York, and he had already begun looking into the logistics of moving there. Moving them  _ both  _ there - and then, as if he’d somehow known his windows was closing, Eliot’s dad had shown up. At their  _ house _ . 

“It was your third institutionalization, this time with a suicide watch prominently attached when you first went in, and that gets around. You know how it is, small town, big mouths,” Eliot dove in, the words flowing as if rehearsed. It had been years since he’d made speeches to Quentin in his head, hundreds of them, to try and explain and understand - it all came back so easily. “Dad always knew where to poke a sharp stick, and how to make it lethal if he felt like it, so he jumped on that the moment he could. He stopped by the house,  _ our house _ , which he’d never done before. Decided a confrontation was in order, I guess -”

Quentin was watching him closely now, but Eliot couldn’t look at him as he relayed everything. If he moved even an inch he was pretty sure the words would stutter to a stop.

“I tried to get him to leave before he could say his piece, but he wasn’t going to go without doing any damage. You know he wanted me back on that farm. They’d been killing themselves trying to keep it afloat, and I wanted nothing to do with it. We used to call it karma, remember that?” His laugh sounded as dead as the smile on his face. 

It was universally cruel he could still hear his father’s voice ringing in his ears, each and every word in his cadence and gravel-rough rasp, as he quoted that day.

“He told me that - when you finally killed yourself - I was going to move back home and work for him. They needed the bodies.” 

Quentin gaped in shocked silence. “He  _ what _ ?” 

“ _ ‘You’re a Waugh, whether any of us likes it or not, so you  _ **_will_ ** _ come back home and work that farm ‘til your back breaks, just like the rest of us. Or die trying. Be a man, for once in your life.’ _ You know, his usual spiel.” He still had a spot on impression of his Old Man, too, wasn’t that a fun revelation.

“El...”

“That wasn’t even the worst part,” he said, quiet and without breaking stride. 

Quentin reached over and took his hand, warm and steady and  _ really _ what Eliot needed. He hadn’t known he needed it until after it happened, hadn’t realized how much he needed the reminder that their fingers still intertwined the same way. Fit perfectly when Q squeezed his hand tight. 

“We argued, I wasn’t going anywhere with him. Then, God, he actually said  _ ‘I brought you into this world, God help me, and don’t think I won’t undo what I made if I have to.’ _ I know that’s - such a cliche thing to say, like a bad Lifetime movie, but the thing about my dad was… he would have done it. Or something close.” Eliot swallowed around the words, rasped out and still so close to whispering. He would have given anything to never remember those words ever again. “He was desperate, and angry, and I’d never seen that look in his eyes before. It scared me. I didn’t want to test what he was capable of, Q. I just wanted to get us out.”

Quentin’s eyes were skittering, making this pained face as he did calculations; piecing together the timeline just like Eliot was. Figuring out where everything had gone wrong. “You’d already applied to school in New York, before that?” he asked, not as a barb, in fact his words threatened to wobble and shatter apart. He hadn’t let go of Eliot’s hand, either. 

“Yes, but I wasn’t about to cut and run. Not until my dad said what he did. I already had the scholarships, I was looking at apartments, I was going to go get it all ready. I was… I was going to come back and get you,” Eliot confessed, and knew now how many things could have gone wrong if that had been the route they went. “I should have known something was wrong, when you never answered me those first few months.”

“And then when I did I didn’t want to hear your reasons, because you left me behind, too,” Quentin went on, nodding as if he got it. As if it was clicking into place. “I remember you saying that, the ‘brought you into this world’ line,” he whispered then. “I’m pretty sure I threw it back in your face, and I’m sorry for that, Eliot.” El just squeezed Quentin’s hand back as tightly as he could and turned to look at him, finally. Able to now see the devastation and unfairness of it all in the other man’s face as well. 

“We said a lot of things we shouldn’t have, over the years.”

“But we also didn’t say enough. I needed you, too, El,” Quentin said, tipping into desperation. “You tried to be there for me, but we weren’t prepared for the diagnosis, the hospital stays, the suicide watch. I know your reasons, now. But back then it was a nightmare for me. Everything was intentional, everyone was slipping away, and then you were gone because I shut the door and you stopped showing up.” He must have gotten so close to giving up, and Eliot felt his eyes burning, mirroring the shimmer in Q’s even in the darkness beneath the bleachers. 

“We both stopped trying, when we should have tried harder,” Eliot said, remembering his talk with Julia that afternoon. What she had said the night before.  _ Try harder, stupid _ . “We should have tried harder.” But they both knew it was too little, too late for that now. “Funny how things don’t work out the way you want them to,” Eliot murmured, tilting his head a fraction and taking another look at  **_Forever & Further_ ** above them. Forever was… an awfully long time.

“Funny how some things do,” Quentin said with a sad smile. Eliot looked back, confused, and realized they had shifted closer to keep the secrets and stories between them. Whispered confessions in the dark. “You looked like you had fun tonight.”

“I did,” Eliot smiled, playing with the rings on his fingers and not remembering taking off his engagement ring. He must’ve left it at his mother’s place before doing his apology tour. Oh, what would Sebastian think of that. His smile dropped slowly, sadly. “I’m happy in New York, Q. I love it so much. The people, the buildings, just… life, always moving.” He was quiet, ducking his head down further, and then admitted in a lower tone, “I know you went there, a year after I left.” 

“My dad?” 

“Julia.” 

Quentin just nodded, like he should have known. Wasn’t even surprised. “I liked it, too, you know. Probably would have liked it more if I wasn’t so busy worrying about you. What I’d be asking you to leave. I know you have a whole life up there, and that you worked hard for it.” His expression went fond, head tilted in consideration, but that just brought their faces even closer together. A familiar set up, from countless sleepovers and years of pillow talk. “It couldn’t have been easy, starting from scratch in a place no one knows you.” 

“After living here, it was pretty much an out of body experience,” Eliot said in exasperation and Quentin laughed. A real laugh. 

“I felt that just being on the subway.”

“God, and by yourself, too? The subway is always a weird first experience.”

“I walked everywhere after that,” Quentin laughed again, and Eliot was grinning a mile wide. Imagining Q trekking down the sidewalks of Manhattan like a lost tourist, endearing and awestruck. He wished he could have seen it.

“Did you miss anything about home?” Quentin dared to ask, when their laughter died down and the silence was almost too comfortable. 

“I miss the storms,” Eliot said, fond. “Those big thunderheads rolling across the hills, lightning in the distance. Being able to see it coming from that far away.”

“I’m always out in those storms,” Quentin told him, quiet like a secret.

“I dreamed about that one when we were little, and we saw that tree get struck by lightning - and it caught fire inside the trunk. You remember that?” Eliot asked, breathless and lost in the old feelings.

“I remember,” Quentin whispered with meaning, something hidden beneath the words, and it snagged Eliot’s attention so suddenly it ceased all other words on his tongue. Quentin wasn’t watching him now, he was looking into him, tracing the lines of his face. “You made this whole new life for yourself, El,” Quentin went on, trying to put some distance between them without moving an inch, and Eliot was rooted to the spot as well - leaning far too close into each other’s space. “You’ve done so well, so much, and I’m so proud of you. After everything, you did what you always said you would do. I just wish-” his voice trailed off and Eliot’s throat felt like it was swollen shut, closed off for air or words.

Whatever Quentin was going to say, he took it all back and swallowed it down. Shook his head, tore his eyes away from Eliot’s, only to look down at where their hands were still intertwined. “I just wish you didn’t have to do it alone. I’m… glad you’re not, anymore.” 

They didn’t mention his fiancè, but they didn’t have to; because Eliot was about to retreat as well. He couldn’t be doing this. 

“Quentin, I’m-” what, sorry? Afraid? Lost?

“I know,” Quentin said, and the sadness that Eliot hated, that he spent so much time trying to chase away ever since they were too small to know it’s source, settled back onto Quentin’s face like it belonged there. 

And he couldn’t have that.

“No, you don’t,” Eliot murmured, words tumbling from his lips as he closed the gap between them and sunk into a kiss that had been waiting for him. Waiting a very, very long time. Quentin melted, a whimper that was so close to a sob it made his heart ache, but he kissed back with everything he had. With fingers threaded through Eliot’s hair, traced his neck, his shoulders, memorized what was about to disappear; and Eliot found himself doing the same. The way Quentin would always fit to every curve and line of his body, because they grew up learning them, grew into them and could never forget how to love them. Every inch, every nerve ending, every gasp and motion and touch that felt so natural - so familiar - there was no comparison.

For the first time since he’d returned to Indiana, Eliot felt like he was home.

Quentin’s hands pressed warm and splayed against his chest, started to push him back, trying to untangle them from where they’d nearly fallen over - and Quentin tried to say something to him. A feat, with Eliot ravaging his mouth.

“ _ Eliot _ ,” his plea turned to a prayer and even though Eliot  _ knew _ , fuck it all he knew that Quentin was telling him that that was enough. This had to be enough. But he couldn’t stop.

“No,” he pleaded right back, surged in for another kiss that was long and lasting and met with such tattered emotion it stole both their breath away. This couldn’t be the last of it. “Please.” Languid kisses that pressed and pulled and worshiped.

“Eliot,” Quentin gasped out, snapping them apart and the dark depths of his eyes were too much to get lost in. Too easy to fall into, and never come back up. “Go home.”

The words were ripped from his throat, and it stunned Eliot enough for Quentin to slip out from under his warm hands. Before Eliot could gain his bearings, Quentin was gone, and that haunted look stayed behind - stained into his memory. Every time he closed his eyes. His lips felt the ghost of another for the rest of the night, all the long walk home back to the Waugh farm. Torturing and wonderful and left him burning with more than just shame and want. Love and loss. 

As far as final goodbyes went, Eliot couldn’t decide if that had been the best or worst thing that ever happened to him. 

\--


	13. xii. The Fiancè

-

Eliot was packed before the sun rose in the sky the next morning.

He’d showered, washing away everything from the night before, scrubbing himself raw to remove any ghosts of hands and lips that threatened to remain pressed into his skin. He’d dressed in his trademark button down and silk vest, polished as can be, even shaved away the charming shadow he’d started to like the look of - and was ready to leave as soon as possible.

The morning sun was streaking over the horizon when he finished gathering the last of his things, rolled his suitcase into the empty kitchen and downed a cup of coffee Daniel had made hours ago (he and their mother were up just as early as Eliot had been, farmlife never sleeps). He slipped on his jacket, warding off the damp morning, and practically stormed out the door with the screen behind him. Suitcase in hand, satchel over his shoulder, and his mother hot on his heels.

Once his mother had seen he was up, she had been trying to get his attention -  _ all morning _ \- and Eliot did not want a repeat of the night before. He was leaving, she would get an invite to the wedding (hell, he’d even pay for her and Dan’s plane tickets to England) but he was never -  _ ever _ \- stepping foot in the state of Indiana ever again. 

“Eliot! Just talk to me, for one second before you leave!” his mom finally shouted after him, already off the deck and halfway across the lawn. 

“Mom, whatever it is about last night you want to talk about - I really don’t want to be our last conversation before I go.” He really hated to put it in those plain terms, but she hadn’t let up for the past half hour and things were beginning to feel strained and frayed between them once more. Not that they usually weren’t, but this time it hadn’t felt so bad. The unsaid things that always hung between them didn’t feel like such a bother in the grand scheme of shit he’d been through that week.

“Oh, Eliot sweetheart, no it’s not about… that.” She couldn’t even bring herself to mention Alex or Cindy, and she did look heartbroken thinking back on it. Like she’d pushed it out of her mind until her youngest son had brought it back up. Some very ugly doors were opened to her the night before, and Eliot did feel bad about that. Just a little bit. He stopped in the middle of the grass and gravel lot, chucking his suitcase into the trunk of his rental car, and then turned around to face his mother. Even crossed the space to where she stood with her arms crossed and shoulders a little hunched. She looked more her age, then, maybe even a bit older than she had before. Facing reality could do that. “I’m just… sorry you didn’t get to see Nathaniel. He hasn’t had the easiest of years, some drug issues he’s recently cleaned up,” she said it quiet and quick, a breach of trust but something she knew Eliot would want to know. He was glad she did, he didn’t know what he’d expected from Nate but that wasn’t too far left field. “But I know  _ he  _ will be sorry to have missed you. No matter what your brother says.” 

It was the first time Eliot could remember his mom talking somewhat negatively about any of his brothers. Perfect, All-American specimens that they were; especially Alex, the epitome of ‘boys will be boys’ and now with the photogenic nuclear family to boot. A long time ago, not even what he’d said the night before would have shaken that rose-colored view.

“Thanks mom,” Eliot said quietly, honestly. “Tell him - I said hi, and that he is welcome to the wedding if he wants.” It was hard to tell where Nate stood on the homophobia spectrum, much like a good part of the family, but he’d picked Eliot up out of the dirt enough times as kids to warrant some benefit of the doubt. And after all, Eliot was the last person to be (scoffing) at second or third chances. 

“I will,” she promised with a smile, a sad and broken thing. But grateful. “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, though.”

Eliot sighed, mostly to the sky as he rolled his shoulders and resigned himself to whatever lecture he somehow missed. He shifted his weight to one hip, leaning on it and motioned for her to go on. Better to get it over with.

“I saw you, last night. You and Quentin.” 

Eliot’s heart dropped to his shoes, eyes wide. He wasn’t sure  _ how _ that was possible - but after a blind few seconds of panic he realized she meant at the fair. Him and Quentin playing nice, talking, laughing,  _ dancing _ .

“Oh, God-” he bemoaned, rolling back to close his eyes against the sky again.

“No, Eliot, don’t brush me off. I  _ saw _ you two, and I’m just saying,” she held up her hands, ‘don’t shoot the messenger’, but Eliot couldn’t help but scowl. He was trying to forget Quentin, at least for a little while. At least enough to board the plane back home.

“I can’t help our history, mom. We’re always going to feel something for each other.” She gave him a hard look and Eliot immediately felt defensive, back to his teenage years with his arms crossed and his voice cracking. “We didn’t do anything wrong!” She didn’t know about the kiss. To her - and the rest of the world - they did  _ nothing _ wrong. They danced. They left, separately. End of story. 

“You both haven’t done a lot right, either,” his mom said with a meaningful stare.

“Why are we even having this argument?!” Eliot shouted, a little too shrill. “I’m leaving, I’m basically gone. I’m marrying another man.” 

“That’s right, you are, so don’t you mess it up young man,” his mother scolded at him and Eliot felt all of three feet tall. Moms always seemed to know how to get to the root of it all without even knowing the truth in its entirety. “You get a second chance at a happy life, do  _ not _ mess it up. Do not put another person through what you and Quentin just went through.”

“Mom, Quentin and I  _ were _ happy! He got sick, we got confused, and then Dad - you know what, never mind, it doesn’t matter. It’s all water under the bridge now, the only person bringing it up is you.” He knew he was being far too snappy, and to his mom of all people, but he couldn’t help it. The unfairness of everything kept seeping in under the cracks when all he wanted to do was think of anything else. Anything at all.

“Apparently no one needs to say a thing for it to be brought up again,” his mom said pointedly and Eliot all but growled at her. “Don’t you sass me. With all the arrests and the eloping, I’ve gone through a lot over the past few years with you - and I know part of it is just being the youngest. I just want-” 

“WHAT? What do you want from me mom? Why are you being like this, right  _ now _ ?!”

“Because I don’t want you to end up like your father and me! Damn it!” his mom outright hollered at him, raising her voice to a volume he’d never heard before.

Eliot was speechless. 

“In no way, were Quentin and I - like you and dad,” he said, so deadly serious and quietly rageful it grated through his bones. 

“You were  _ trapped _ here,” his mom said, about to shake him to make him see. “You got out, and you need to  _ stay _ out. Stay as far away from here as you can. Your love for that boy is like quicksand and he will suck you back in before you can blink.” 

Again, Eliot was speechless - and hurt beyond belief.

“Mom… you love Quentin.”

“I do, but I hate what almost happened to you.” But the look on her face, tears blurring her eyes, he realized she must have had a better idea what happened between Eliot and his dad years ago. She knew that man better than anyone, knew what he was capable of. Between one breath and the next Eliot felt his heart aching for his mom and what she’d silently gone through for decades with that man. “You deserve more than this place, this kind of life. The way you grew up, Eliot, wasn’t what I would wish on any of my children, ever. And I hate myself for it, because there was nothing we could do. Your dad’s anger, it isn’t something we just endured, it was something that leaves stains behind. I’ve seen it, in your brothers, in you - before you left for New York. When you are backed in a corner, or pinned down, your first instinct isn’t to rationalize or adapt - you lash out. That anger is something that was passed down and I didn’t want-” she stopped talking, seeming to see her son fully for a minute and it cut off her words like a knife.

Eliot didn’t know what his face was doing because it felt numb.

Was his mom… actually saying… she was worried Eliot would…  _ become _ his dad?

“You got out, Eliot,” his mother said softly, trying to bring him back down from the state of horror and panic, reached up and touched his cheek to anchor him. It said something about Eliot’s state of being that he didn’t flinch back. He couldn’t even feel his body. “You didn’t turn into him. You became this amazing, wonderful man - who cares more than his heart can take, and I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. That he didn’t ruin you.” The tears welled up and overwhelmed his eyes before he could stop them, and his mom pulled him in and hugged him tight. Eliot found himself hugging her back, struck and needing the physical contact. “We deserve to be happy, baby. Not because of what he did, but  _ despite  _ it.” Eliot nodded against her, his cheek resting against the top of her head, and she smiled weakly, beaming at him softly. So openly proud of him she didn’t even have to say it. 

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, but eventually Eliot knew he needed to be going. He had a plane to catch.

“I’ll see you in England, I suppose,” he said, wiping at his face and letting his mom smooth down his hair as he did. “Unless… you want to come to New York and help plan the wedding? I think you’d love it there.” he didn’t sound as sure of himself as he said it, but the gesture was enough to lighten the color of his mom’s eyes. 

“I’ll think about it,” she said, and saw him off to his car. Arms still crossed as if warding off a chill, undeterred by the summer heat. “Don’t forget to stop by the rodeo grounds and say goodbye to your brother.” 

Eliot quietly struck his head against the center of his steering wheel, repeatedly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

-

Just outside Knightsville, right before Rayville and the rock quarry, was the old fairgrounds. Used for everything from cattle auctions to pop-up RV parks and truck stops, but most importantly - where the Rooftop Rodeo was set up each year. A main show ring surrounded by metal rise bleachers and a smattering of booths to sell food and beer and typical cowboy leatherwork, and on the opposite side of the ring the interconnecting pens and chutes for cattles and horses. It wasn’t very big, the parking lot was about the same size as the entire rodeo set up, but it always had a wonderful turnout. 

As early in the morning as it was, the only people around were the volunteer workers doing set up and the farmhands helping with the livestock. Cowboy hats and jeans and boots as far as the eye could see, making Eliot stick out even more as he waded through the sparse crowd in search of Daniel. 

He ended up asking a couple of the farmhands where Dan Waugh was at, leaning against the thick metal fencing and still able to look over it as they led a couple of the broncos. They all pointed him in the right direction, and unless his eyes deceived him, one was… definitely checking him out. He couldn’t place the man’s face, so he probably wasn’t from around those parts, and Eliot smirked to himself as he left them to their work. Maybe he should have joined the rodeo circuit back when he had the urge in high school. (Those men had hips that knew how to handle a lot of rough bucking. They actually gave out medals for that shit.) 

He ended up at the main show ring, the dirt already plowed and set for practice sessions. The fencing was lined with handmade billboards and tacked up advertising for local businesses and restaurants, the flimsy metal seats cleaned up as best they could be from a hose down the night before, and over by the cattle chutes he spotted Daniel and another man running drills for steer wrestling. A two man sport where a young steer (older than a calf) would get a split second head start on two grown ass men on horses chasing after it with lassos. Yes, lassos. One was supposed to get the steer’s back legs while the other jumped to the dirt and physically wrestled the animal to the ground by the horns and hog-tied it. A timed event, and usually about a 50/50 turn out for if the steer got away or not; they were usually pretty smug about it when they did. 

The two men moved well together, their horses in tandem, and Eliot tilted his head as he watched while leaning against the fences again. Wondering about his brother for a moment, living at home with no significant other and what that really might mean, when the second man looked up and Eliot got a good look at his face. He recognized the man about the same time he shouted at him. 

“ELIOT! YOU’RE HERE?!” 

It was Nate, his third oldest brother; skinny as a beanpole, sallow face showing he was still recovering, but his eyes were bright and sober and there was color in his cheeks. He must have been well on the mend, if he was doing rodeo events. He kicked the horse to a trot and rode up fast to stop by where Eliot had been watching them, a half-grin of disbelief on his face. They really all did have the same smile, didn’t they? 

“Mom’s going to be beside herself I got to see you,” he said with a side grin that matched, like looking in a mirror.

“No kidding,” Nate laughed, and Daniel came riding up just as fast to stop next to them. 

“You’re invited to the wedding, by the way,” Eliot said with a smirk, his guarded gaze calculating as he watched the look on his brother’s face change through a variety of emotions before settling on a nod and a laugh.

“Congrats, by the way. You’re two for two, better than the rest of us,” he jested, kicking at Daniel’s boot and sending his horse side-stepping with an annoyed snort. They dissolved into this easy laughter that is only a little strained, shooting the shit like adults do even when it’s a little awkward. 

Nathaniel was always the in-between kid, one foot on either side of the fence when it came to family and morals and values - and that included picking on Eliot. Dan was the oldest, usually not around for the worst of it, and Nate was the third boy in line - when the second told you to do something you did it. It was very apparent that Nate had zero problems with Eliot being gay, and didn’t have many knee-jerk homophobic tendencies; he just represented that stereotypical “middle ground” Midwestern bullshit scenario. Where upbringing and general opinion ran his own stance on a variety of issues, instead of the man thinking for himself. We get the full spectrum here in the middle of nowhere. 

But he had missed Eliot, said it quite a few times; dug his clothes, asked endlessly about New York, and soon a half hour had passed and was slipping rapidly towards a full forty. Dan asked Eliot to stick around while they ran a couple more drills, and Eliot said he couldn’t - he had to get to Indianapolis before it got too late, but they gang up on him - which was very familiar and Eliot was one step off the fence before he caved. Staying for a good long while as they ran drill after drill, brushing dust from his suit every time they busted out of the chutes. An outsider looking in, even still, but it didn’t hurt as much this time. Being comfortable in your own skin looked good on him, and he liked it on his brothers as well. 

They were meant to change, not remain the same shape their parents tried to mold them into. That was all a part of growing up. Eliot smirked to himself as the day grew long, hoping with every fiber of his being that his father was rolling over in his grave witnessing his children acting like decent, functioning adults. He hadn’t won, in the end, and that was more satisfying than anything else. 

-

The night before, in the evening while sitting at his dad’s make-shift wooden bar spinning on barstools and chatting into the night, Quentin and Alice had made plans to go to the rodeo the next day and check out the artisan fair after. She wanted to case out the vendors there and help Q see if it was a worthwhile venture to pursue at some point - plus, who didn’t love the rodeo? When he woke up the following morning, miserable and emotionally hung over, he’d tried to cancel on her. His mistake, really, trying to go that route (especially through a text message) because Alice had facetimed him outright and told him he wasn’t allowed to cancel on her. Apparently, they had a lot to talk about if something was making him want to hide under the covers all morning on a sunny day such as this. She’d been in a hurry getting dressed, said she needed to stop by work and set up the weekend staff schedules, then she’d be over to drag him out of bed by the ankles.

Q knew she would do just that, no exaggeration needed. He offered to pick her up at work, instead. Alice sure as shit could create a good motivation out of thin air whenever she wanted to.

He approached the Brakebills Estate not long after, able to drag his feet as much as he wanted since it was just down the road and over the largest hill. He probably could have walked if he’d wanted to. It was nestled nicely into a valley backed up to the cliffside over the river, and every time he took the curved road that rounded his family’s forestry it was like he’d driven right out of the Indiana countryside and into some English moor fit for any fantasy novel. He and Eliot had always called it Whitespire, because the white stone bricks and polished grey metalwork made it gleam and sparkle in the Indiana sun - much like how the fantastical castle was described in his  _ Fillory & Further _ books. In one in particular, his very first copy of  _ The World in the Walls _ that he’d read and reread until the spine started to thread and fall apart, there were illustrations scattered throughout the prose and the drawing of Whitespire looked so similar to the structure hidden in the hills it seemed impossible. It still seemed impossible, even as he was driving his truck up over the bridge and through the winding grounds, filled with sprawling willow trees and flowerbeds, designed as perfectly as money could buy. 

Professor Mayakovsky wasn’t the actual owner, nor did he dictate the look of the grounds and the castle himself, but it had run in his family and the unknown patriarch (rumors of a wealthy gentleman in California, or possibly Wales) kept the place well funded and his distant relation comfortable. Allowed to run his experiments and live there with the aide of many,  _ many _ qualified staff members. Alice was just one in the long list of people meant to keep the Professor in check and happy (as a disgruntled, slightly mad Russian could be). 

Quentin did his best, most days, to relate the Brakebills Estate to Professor Mayakovsky and Alice’s place of work. The Professor definitely left enough of an impression to help mask a lot of other memories that wanted to slip in and take over his mind’s eye; he and Eliot sneaking as close to the grounds as they could as children. Jumping the fence and running through the gardens as young teens, hiding in the dark, sitting in the gleaming glass windows to watch the stars and moon cross the sky. It was a much further journey than stepping through a clock, but that castle had been their own Fillory for years and years until they got too big to slip in and out so easily. 

So lost in his memories Quentin had allowed his hands to take over the drive, until he almost ran straight into someone in a large, black SUV. He slammed on the breaks, jolting himself forward harshly, and he could see the other man almost hit the steering wheel as well. He waved at him to enter ahead of him, and followed the car through the giant cast iron gates and all the way up the cobblestone drive. It must have been an investor, or someone looking for a venue.

“Good afternoon,” the man called as he stepped out of his vehicle, waving good naturedly. All smiles in the morning sunshine, his British accent as charming as his smile. 

“G’morning,” Quentin tried to grin back. “How are you?” Typical MidWestern greeting, it always slips out as automatically as breathing.

“Very good, thank you. Yourself?” 

“Can’t complain,” Q lied through his teeth, but the man accepted his answer readily enough as he looked around the grounds in appreciation. He was a good few years older than Quentin, chestnut hair soft and professionally cut, blowing about in the light breeze; pale English skin, aristocratic features, and a wonderment in his face like the estate was having a personal effect on his emotions. 

“This really is a beautiful place,” he said in awe. 

“We’re pretty proud of it around here,” Quentin remarked, hands in his pockets as the two of them made their way towards the front door. 

“I can only imagine,” the man laughed, and it was light enough Quentin found his own forced smile easier to hold.

“You here to set up a venue date?” he asked, the man definitely looked the type. “They’re usually booked about a year out, by this late in the summer.” He was aiming for conversational, he’d had a lot of practice over the years with his own work. “Very popular for weddings.” 

“They rent out the grounds?”

Quentin shrugged. “Makes them a little money on the side, keeps them busy. Otherwise it kind of just sits here.”

“That’s a good idea, most families wouldn’t think of that,” the man laughed again. “But no, although it is tempting.” His grin was radiant as he thought of someone in particular, eyes sparkling as he looked back to Quentin - very much enjoying his company. “I was hoping I could surprise Eliot, he doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Eliot?” Quentin stopped in his tracks, the other man still walking up the castle steps. 

“Yes, my fiancè,” the man said back, the warm smile now obviously meant for the man Q had been doing everything in his power to not think about that morning.

Because of course it was Eliot’s fiancè. What else could possibly go wrong for him that week?

“You… sure you have the right place?” Quentin said carefully, forcing himself to slowly follow him, and the man turned around looking mildly confused. He patted at his pockets for his cell phone, to recheck the address most likely. As if there would be another full on castle built into the countryside around here. He wouldn’t have luck with the service, anyway. 

“This is the Brakebills Estate, yes? The Waugh family lives here?” he continued looking for clues in Quentin’s confused face and started drawing his own deductions. “Are we talking about the same person?” 

“I must be thinking of another Eliot,” Quentin said quietly, not able to keep the look of disgust off his face. “The Eliot I knew was raised on a farm not far from here, we grew up together.” 

“Oh, yes that wouldn’t be the same person,” the man said with a relieved sigh. “Eliot spent all his school boy days on the East Coast. That explains it,” he smiled, like it was an honest mistake.

“It sure does,” Quentin muttered, and stepped up beside him by the large oak front doors. Not sure how this was going to play out when someone answered the door, or if he should cover for Eliot. 

How much had he been lying to his friends back in New York? Or here? How much had he lied to  _ him _ ? If he lied this much to this really nice man, whom he had dated and was now engaged to, what they hell would be stopping him from lying about anything else? About  _ everything else _ ? 

The man in question held out his hand when Quentin caught up to him. “Sebastian Chatwin.”

“Quentin Coldwater,” Q answered, shaking his hand. 

“Nice to meet you Quentin. That’s a good, classic name.”

“Wait -  _ Chatwin _ ?” It had taken much longer than a beat for the name to actually register in his brain. He’d read it a million times over the span of his life, how it hadn’t jumped out forthright was astonishing.

Sebastian chuckled, modestly, “I see you were fans of the books. Yes, my siblings and myself were victims of my mother’s eccentricities.” He leaned in and whispered, “My real name is actually Rupert. But I could never escape the reputation of  _ Fillory & Further _ , especially at school in Great Britain, so we all tend to go by our middle names instead.” 

_ Rupert _ .  _ Fucking. Chatwin. _

Quentin was so stunned, so - flabbergasted, and irrationally angry, he couldn’t even answer him. He just turned to the door and rang the bell for them. He needed to get Alice and leave before he said something he would regret.

Alice was the one who answered the door, as it was the weekend and the main staff had it off for the holiday festival. She looked between the two men in surprise, expecting Quentin and not the polished man in a light grey suit. “Hey, Q,” she said slowly, looking to Sebastian in thinly veiled confusion. “Hello? Are you here for an appointment? Our offices are closed on Saturdays.” She took a quick, darting glance at Quentin again, to see if the gorgeous man was there  _ with  _ him; but at her friend’s stone-cold expression that was very much not the case.

The man laughed nervously, quietly excited about something, “No, no actually I was hoping to surprise someone who lives here.”

“Professor Mayakovsky?” she asked, and at Sebastian’s startled blink she fully turned to Quentin. “What is going on?” She was very suspicious, because Quentin was way too present and way too silent to not have an inkling on the situation.

“Alice, this is Eliot’s fiancè. Sebastian.  _ Chatwin _ .” Sebastian beamed, as proud as could be, and Alice’s face dropped to a careful neutral as well. “He’s wondering if you might know where he is.”

“A pleasure,” Sebastian said, taking her hand and shaking it politely. He must have had a very good gauge on people, from a mere glance of the face, because he had been able to tell she wouldn’t have wanted him to kiss the back of her hand - although he was very much the type to do that. The strangled giggle that escaped Alice at his partial bow was near hysterical. Put on the spot by  _ fucking Quentin _ \- she stared at him with wide eyes behind her glasses and then snapped her attention back to the British man. 

“Alice Quinn, I’m Eliot’s… cousin.” She saw Quentin narrow his eyes at how fast she came up with that response, and flinched at how she and Eliot had somehow already come up with a cover story. His whole world was going to fall apart if she didn’t warn him to find his fiancè and take over damage control. “I see you’ve already met Quentin, Eliot’s-” she didn’t even know what to call him. 

“Other cousin,” Q said easily, schooling his expression to something that could have masqueraded as pleasant. Alice’s nervous laugh burst out of her before she could stop it.

“Oh! Well, it’s wonderful to meet you both,” Sebastian exclaimed. “Eliot talks so little of his family.”

“He’s not very close with his immediate family. His parents and brothers really tend to go their own way,” Alice blabbered, conversationally. But Sebastian’s face lit up, delighted.

“He has brothers? He never mentioned that!”

“Yep, three of them,” Alice squeaked out, sweating under the close scrutiny; and no matter how many non-verbal signals she sent Quentin he remained unresponsive. Fine, be a brat. Two could play that game. “You know, I think Eliot  _ did _ say something about going to see his brother at the rodeo before heading to the airport this morning. He has a flight at noon, I really hope you didn’t make this trip all for nothing.” She tried for apologetic, and hoped it came off a little convincing as she side-eyed Quentin something harsh. 

“Oh, well if I do miss him at least I got to see your beautiful family home,” Sebastian went on, gesturing around them in admiration. 

“Yes, it is worth the trip,” she said pleasantly, and looked directly at Quentin. “I’m sure Q could give you directions to the fairgrounds, we were headed there ourselves. You might still be able to catch him?”

Quentin very much doubted it, but he glanced at Sebastian and decided that if he was ever going to get a chance to gauge the man who asked for Eliot’s hand, then this was probably going to be his only one. He didn’t know if that meant he wanted to make sure this Sebastian was worthy of the title he’d been robbed of, or if he wanted to see how deep the deception went with Eliot’s elaborate backstory. Either way, Alice’s plan just backfired and that made it easier to keep the scowl off his face.

“C’mon, you can leave your car here and I’ll drive you. Alice, see you there?” the two life-long friends sent half-hearted glares, but Alice could see the spark of determination in Quentin’s stare. He wanted information, and she bit her lip to keep back any commentary - because, damn it all, she would want to know, too. Anything and everything she could pry out of him. Quentin would be more subtle about it. She hoped.

-

The drive to the fairgrounds took them through Carthage and along the winding river around Knightsville, giving Q and Sebastian a good few minutes in each other’s presence as Quentin chauffeured them. The man beside him looked so polished and professional sitting there in his pick-up’s faded leather seats. Like he’d been cut out of a magazine and placed there just to see the color contrast clash. 

“So - who’s this other Eliot, that you grew up with? A friend of yours?” Sebastian said to intercept the tense silence, although Quentin didn’t know if it was tense for the other man. He felt like his teeth were about to shatter he’d been clenching his jaw so tight; a coping mechanism that always left his jaw aching. 

“Yeah, we were best friends all through school and after graduation,” Quentin said, distant and half sunken into disassociation. “He was a local legend, around here. Underage outlaw, old west style: always kicking up trouble on the farms and out in the pastures, and I was right there with him the whole time.”

“The trusty side-kick?” Sebastian said fondly.

“Partner in crime, more so. We liked to think we were Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.” Q smirked thinking back to how many times, young and older, that they’d joy ridden the tractors (both their parents’ equipment and neighbors), swapped cattle in pastures, anything to make the long stretch of summer days seem a little more interesting without causing too much harm. There was also the chainsaw incident, though - among others - so they weren’t always so simple as pick-pocketing someone’s keys. He wasn’t sure when, in the middle of his musings, he’d started telling some of those little stories out loud, but he had Sebastian’s rapt attention. No longer even looking out the window, the man was instead leaning against the door and watching Quentin talk in animated gestures with smiles and laughs both fond and incredulous. He’d forgotten he was mad, for a moment, until he saw Sebastian watching him with a small grin. 

“Anyway, he was picked up more times than I can count over the years. Everyone in the sheriff’s office knew him and his home phone number by heart. I don’t think that Old Sheriff ever put his folder in a filing cabinet, just kept it on his desk for the next time he’d need it.” Quentin felt his hands go slack on the wheel as they pulled into the fairgrounds parking lot. “We raised so much hell growing up.”

“That’s quite a story,” Sebastian said in amusement.

“He was quite a kid,” Quentin answered, quiet as he parked. “Grew up to be quite a man.” The silence that followed made Sebastian inspect Quentin even more closely, studying his profile and knowing the expression on his face. Heard the tone in his voice that said this person, this other Eliot, meant something to him. Something real and deep.

“What happened to him?”

Quentin’s mouth turned into a shape so sad and fond and broken, half open as he struggled for words. “Oh - you know, same old story. Married some loser out of high school, bought a house they couldn’t afford, and let the town bury him until he was able to claw his way out. Lit out and never looked back.” Sebastian could hear the levels in that story, and understood the sentiment a little too well. In a way that quieted the joy he’d been feeling being in his fiancè’s hometown.

“I’m sorry,” he told Quentin. Causing the other man to look at him with hurt and betrayal shining in his dark eyes. But Q - he could tell Sebastian meant it, which was more than he could say for Eliot. He didn’t even know if anything Eliot told him was true anymore. He didn’t know what to trust.

“Thanks,” he said back, and meant it, too. At least a little bit. 

-

Eliot and his brothers lost track of time. Color him surprised. After they finished drills he’d followed Daniel and Nate back to their designated pen for the horses, and the three brothers had ended up talking up a storm. He was cutting it close to leaving for Indianapolis, too close if he wanted to make that flight, but - part of him was afraid to break the spell created there in a ring of meal fencing. Sure it was coated in dust and smelled strongly of cow and manure and hay and leather, and yet somehow Eliot couldn’t even bring himself to be bothered by it. He was… getting along with his brothers, for the first time in as long as he could remember, and something about him leaving felt like it would shatter that. 

“You sure you can’t stay for some of the morning events?” Daniel pleaded, sitting atop the fence with his boot heels hooked over the bars in between. “We’re going to put the Smithson bothers to shame in a few hours.”

“No, sorry I can’t,” Eliot said with a shrug, not wanting to let on how much he’d been thinking about it. He already sent the divorce papers, he could change his flight - but no, he said he wasn’t going to let this happen. He had to go home to New York before he decided Carthage wasn’t as bad as he remembered. “But it was pretty cool watching you two wrestle a defenseless, adolescent steer to the ground and hogtie it.”

“That defenseless steer would kick your teeth in if it got half a chance,” Nate said defensively, pointing at him and Eliot just huffed out a laugh. Like he’d get that close to it in the first place. The crowds were starting to file in for the morning rodeo, cutting the corner next to where they stood talking and heading for the rise bleachers. Then, down the long isle between the bleacher seats and metal fencing of the ring, Elito spotted someone he had  _ not _ expected to see there. 

Actually… two someones.

Slipping expertly through the crowd was Sebastian, in a light linen suit and looking far too comfortable in the Indiana heat, with that radiant smile on his face. And behind him, following the man so closely it was obvious they’d come there together, hands in his pockets (as usual), was Quentin. Eliot pushed off the fence and crossed the space to get out of earshot of his brothers. 

“Surprised to see me?” Sebastian beamed, closing in and sweeping Eliot into a heartfelt kiss that Eliot could barely remember to return. Because what… in gay hell… was happening. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, breathless, and before Sebastian could smother his grin enough to answer - Quentin spoke. Cold and intentional. 

“Delivering your fiancè. He showed up on your  _ doorstep _ , when I was picking up  _ Alice. _ ” Eliot’s veins were running hot and cold, the number of things revealed in that sentence was insurmountable. Sebastian had turned up at the estate, he’d run into Quentin, he’d run into  _ Alice _ ; so much could have gone wrong. Why was Sebastian so happy to see him when the number of lies were piling up so quickly?

Unless he didn’t know yet.

Eliot felt like he was going to throw up.

Sebastian turned to Quentin with a half offended look of confusion. “I think he was talking to me.” Oh, God - he didn’t know. They’d covered for him, again.

“Q-” Eliot stated, not sure how he could… even  _ begin _ to explain.

“It must be so  _ exhausting _ ,” Quentin spit out, venom and fire. 

Both Eliot and Sebastian asked “What?” at the same time, Sebastian beyond confused by that point.

“The lies.” Quentin wasn’t even pretending to smile anymore. Not even a bitter one.

“What are you talking about?” Sebastian demanded, no longer smiling either. He looked between Q and Eliot and did not like the struck, devastated expression on his fiancè’s face. Quentin took pity on the British man, because he no longer had anything else to say to Eliot. So he looked Sebastian in the face when he told him what had been on his mind the past hour.

“You and I are in love with two very different people.” 

Then he left, and Eliot couldn’t even hear his own heartbreaking over the roar in his ears. Could barely function as Sebastian looked to him for answers, and Eliot - again, didn’t even know where to start. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He tugged Sebastian back out of the crowded walkway, trying to get him somewhere they wouldn’t be overheard. 

“He said he was your cousin,” Sebastian began, before Eliot could even find his own words. It was just the two of them against the metal fencing bracketing the crowd seating; his kind eyes far more patient that Eliot deserved. 

El closed his eyes to breathe once. Twice. Three times and exhaled the words he never wanted to utter in Sebastian’s presence. “He’s my husband.”

“Your  _ what _ ?”

“My  _ ex _ -husband,” Eliot tried to counter.

“You married your cousin?!” 

“What? No! He’s not my cousin,” Eliot explained as quickly as he could speak. Fucking cover stories. “We - we got married right out of high school, and I came here to finalize my divorce. I’ve been trying to for years-”

“Jesus Christ, Eliot!” Sebastian had put a good foot or two of space between them and was as close to pacing as Eliot had ever seen him. 

“I didn’t want you to find out like this, or at all.” Eliot knew he sounded desperate and teetering on the edge of begging, but he hadn’t expected that kind of reaction from Sebastian. “This was my old life, babe, and it doesn’t affect you and me-”

“Of course it does!” Sebastian all but yelled at him, wide-eyed and lost and he never handled being side-swiped like this well. Eliot wasn’t sure how to calm him down when he was the one that caused the problem in the first place. 

“ELIOT!” A voice rang out behind them, and Nate was shouting at him as he rode up looking like death bringing the fourth sign of the apocalypse. “I’m glad you’re still here! The chief from the station was asking about you, he saw you got your mugshot updated. Said he lost the bet you would never be arrested in town again-” he was laughing, but it died in his throat at the quiet that emanated from the two men by the fence. “Am I interrupting?” 

“NATE! DID YOU FIND HIM?!” Dan came loping up, too, and Eliot just groaned at the sky - wanting to scream. Sure, just bring the whole family down while his life was crashing around his feet. “Oh!  _ Oh! _ You didn’t say your better half was coming, too! Daniel Waugh, I’m the oldest of the farm boys,” Dan said with a wide flashing smile, dust caked to half his face, but he shucked off a cowhide glove and went to shake Sebastian’s hand. 

Sebastian, meanwhile, looked like he’d been struck across the face, and he turned his eyes to the ground instead of taking Dan’s hand. So outside of his normal reaction and comfort zone that Eliot felt his heart stop in his chest.

“Eliot Waugh, local outlaw.”

“What?” Eliot said but it was so faint he didn’t know if it really came from him.

“There is no other Eliot,” Sebastian said, no more questions. No more confusion. “You don’t live at that mansion estate. You didn’t go to boarding school in New England.”

“Seba-” But Sebsastian turned and left the same way Quentin had, walking through the thick crowds that parted like the red sea. “Sebastian, wait!” And Eliot chased after him, catching up just outside the stadium seating bleachers. “Please! Just let me explain myself. That’s not who I am anymore, when I left for New York I left that person behind.” Sebastian whirled on him, and Eliot had never seen him that  _ angry _ before. 

“You left a lot of people behind, it looks like, and never once have I seen you lose sleep over that!” 

Eliot choked on his next words. “I’m not that person anymore, Sebastian, I swear!” Sebastian made an aborted gesture like he wanted to throw his hands up. 

“I don’t know  _ who _ you are, I don’t think I ever did. But I do know one thing; I am on the next flight back to New York. Without you.” Then he walked away, leaving Eliot standing there ripping his hands through his hair and waiting for the air raid sirens in his head to stop ringing like a bell. He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know what else to say, he hadn’t figured it out fast enough and now-

Sebastian was gone.

And Quentin was gone.

Now, he had nothing.

-

He didn’t drive to Indianapolis. He missed his flight. Eliot drove right back to his family’s farm, because he didn’t know where else to go. But he knew at least there, he could have the mental breakdown he needed. 

So there he sat, the rest of the afternoon, in his mother’s living room with his flask in one hand and his mom cutting up plums in the kitchen behind him. She watched him the whole time, waiting for him to say something, but from the faint buzzing he heard every few minutes she had probably gotten the gist of it from Daniel and Nate. Eliot rolled his engagement ring between his fingers as he took another long draw from his flask, and kept staring into nothing. Letting his failure seep into his bones and marinate there.

“I know what you want to say so just say it,” Eliot drawled out, less society and more Midwestern now with the burn of liquor loosening his tongue. “You’re thinking  _ I told you so. I  _ **_warned_ ** _ you _ . And you did, you did tell me. Then I went and spoiled it all. I spoiled it a long time ago.” 

He didn’t even want to think about when Margo heard he’d been lying to her, too. She had probably guessed his fake cover story wasn’t real, but he hadn’t come out and told her the fictionality of it all, yet - so finding out on her own would be just as bad as Sebastian’s revelation. He didn’t want to think about it. He took another shot of brandy. 

“Don’t go assuming you know what I’m thinking, Eliot,” his mom said, kindly for once and that was how he’d known he really fucked up. “You think you spoiled everything, but - spoiled isn’t always as bad a thing-”

“In  _ what world _ is ‘spoiled’ not a bad thing,” Eliot taunted harshly. “Pretty sure the dictionary definition of ‘spoiled’ is a very negative connotation.” His mother didn’t rise to his bait, or comment as he drained the last few drops from his flask. 

“Well, these plums are spoiled,” she went on lightly. “A lot of people would say they were ruined, and throw them out, but I never do. The nearly ruined ones can make the sweetest jam. Makes you think,” she looked up at him as she finished slicing another plum, dropped the juicy pieces into her mashing bowl, and made sure her youngest was looking over his shoulder at her as she spoke. “Not everything is such a lost cause, just because other people say it is.” 

Eliot considered his mom, her story, her redemption arc she lived through all while he was away. How, despite how quiet and closed off - even naive - she could be, there were a few things he could learn from her. 

If he stuck around long enough.

“Do you need any help? He asked. 

His mom looked back at him, surprised and half-delighted. Afraid she heard wrong. Smiling when she learned she hadn’t. “I’d like that very much, baby.”

And that was how Eliot ended up in his mother’s kitchen with one of her floral aprons draped over his custom clothing, ladling hot jam into mason jars and making small talk with his mom. Somewhere, in a distant memory, the situation felt familiar, but it had always had a shadow cast across it - one that didn’t deserve to be named - so he didn’t quite remember a particular moment or memory. It was nice to be able to eclipse it with this one. “Nate and Dan are pretty skilled at that cattle-roping, have they talked about going on the road?”

“Don’t you dare put that thought in their heads,” his mom said, pointing a dripping wooden spoon at him. “It’s bad enough I have one baby that doesn’t live near me, I don’t need two more gallivanting across the country chasing rodeos.”

“You make it sound so dramatic,” Eliot teased.

“Runs in the family,” she chided right back, bumping his hip lovingly with her own and giving him a fresh pot of molten fruit to divy up. Eliot just grinned, ducking his head down so she wouldn’t see how much he was trying to not crack up. The dramatics definitely came from his mom’s side of the family.

Then the front door opened, and in walked Dan covered in dust and sweat and stopping at the picture in front of him. With much more restraint than Eliot wanted to give him credit for. Just because he managed to smother the wide grin threatening to break out across his face did NOT mean Eliot couldn’t see it shining in all it’s mirth in his eyes. “Don’t say a word,” he murmured, stirring the pot with the ladle.

“Wasn’t gonna,” Dan said with a barely contained laugh, “but I did happen to find this stray fellow wandering down the highway looking a little lost. Thought I’d bring him home.” 

Sebastian came into the trailer behind Daniel, hands clasped in front of him and looking very cautious - if a little sheepish. “Hi.” 

Eliot did not almost give himself second degree burns, he swore, and he caught the fumbled ladle as he looked up and stared at the man standing in the middle of the small living room. Like he didn’t know what to do. That room was about the size of his walk-in closet, if not smaller.

What the hell was he doing here?

“I thought you’d be halfway to New York by now,” Eliot said quietly, painfully aware they weren’t alone and what had been said not a few hours ago.

“So did I,” Sebastian admitted, and the smallest upturn of his lips was more heartening than anything. 

Behind Eliot, his mother was making a flurry of sounds as she swept up half the clutter on the counter and attempted to hide it. In vane. The kitchen was the size of a postage stamp. “I’m so sorry, if I knew we were having company I would have tidied up a bit,” she babbled, bashful and then with a wave of her hands. “Sorry, sorry don’t mind me, we aren’t here,” and she went to exit stage left, motioning for Daniel to make himself scarce but Eliot stopped her. A hand on her waist as he pulled her to his side.

“It’s alright,” he told her, then turned to Sebastian with his head high and expression open. Even though it felt as heavy as lead. “This is my mom, Ginny Waugh.” She smiled, despite herself, and nodded at Sebastian who managed to smile kindly back. “You already met my brother, Daniel.” Dan took off his hat and tried to not smile too much, knowing it was a big moment for Eliot. “I have two other brothers, one you also met at the rodeo - the one on the horse - the other, you probably won’t.” he hoped he didn’t have to elaborate on that. 

He also didn’t bother to mention his dad. Eliot would not allow his ghost to haunt this confession of the foundation of who he was to the person he wanted to spend his life with.

“And this is our farm. This is where I grew up. Where I went to school, and worked the fields, learned to sew clothes.” He sighed, a shuddering thing because he’d never admitted something this plain and straightforward to anyone, ever. Not anyone who knew him as he was now. He’d put so much distance between the person he’d made himself to be and the person he was before. The life he’d lived before. And he knew there were so many more layers to sift through, that he and Sebastian would have to go through together, but he couldn’t find any more words in that moment. This was all he had, all he could muster. “This is where I’m from.” 

Sebastian nodded, accepting the words and appreciating the struggle it took Eliot to say them so honestly. So openly. It was a part of Eliot he didn’t get to see often, if ever, and he knew when to treasure it.

“It’s a pleasure meeting you both,” he told Eliot’s mom and brother, his British accent as charming and elegant as ever. “I’m Rubert, Sebastian Chatwin; but you can please call me Sebastian.” he didn’t tell everyone that, so it was already a step that made El’s heart skip a beat. “I’m Eliot’s fiancè. That is… if he’ll still have me.” That was said to Eliot; warm, pale green eyes imploring him to not run away. Eliot had run from a lot in his life, including Sebastian on certain occasions, and he was so - so tired of running. Plus, how could he? With Sebastian watching him like that? Somehow, after everything, Sebastian was still standing there looking at Eliot like he held the whole world in his hands, and Eliot didn’t know  _ why _ . Didn’t know how, or what might have happened to make him come back and look at him like that. But the relief was enough to knock him off his feet.

He just didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything at all.

“Eliot, I don’t care where you come from. Or what happened here, years ago,” Sebastian said, closing the chasm of space between them, his fingers itching to take his hands but holding himself back. “I understand you have a past, we all do. I expected nothing less from you, with the amount of wonders you’ve shown me in just the past year. What I need to know is if you will have a place for me in your future. In  _ our _ future.” 

Eliot’s mom had her hand over her heart, and the other over her mouth, like she was watching a romantic stage play. Keeping the tears and gasps at bay. She nudged her son forward and gave him a sharp, watery look, “get your skinny butt up here,” and Eliot couldn’t help the half-hysterical laugh that escaped him. He took the care steps toward Sebastian, and let the man pull him into the warmest, most welcoming hug and held on so tight. Never wanting to let go.

His mother looked to the ceiling and said “thank  _ God _ ” while Daniel laughed at them all in the most good-natured way. Like only Dan could.

“Looks like New York is in our future,” Dan added with a grin. Sebastian just agreed with a matching smile. 

“My brother is the mayor. He’d like nothing more than a big, snazzy New York wedding.”

“I thought we were thinking England, for Christmas?” Eliot asked warily, not wanting to rock the boat he’d just clammored back into.

“To be honest, I’m not sure I want to wait until Christmas,” Sebastian confided in him, back to smiling softly in Eliot’s direction. Eliot knew his own face was mirroring the sentiment.

“Yes, but - I doubt even New York has a venue that’s the callibure Martin would want on such short notice,” he pointed out. Sebastian paused at his words, and thought for a moment before turning mischievous eyes to Eliot.

“I have a crazy idea. What if we got married here.”

“ _ What _ ?” Eliot said in disbelief. 

“Think about it: a lot of people are expecting us to get married in the city, or abroad. Something whimsical and extravagant.” He was saying it like it was a bad thing, but that was also what Eliot had become accustomed to.

“You’re losing me, babe,” he deadpanned. 

“We can still have that,” Sebastian teased his vanity. “But  _ here _ . Smaller attendance, beautiful views, and I have an idea about a venue.” He gave Eliot a sly, partially mocking stare and Eliot couldn’t help but laugh. Because - yeah, that was true; and it would be up to Martin’s standards at least.

He did say that everyone wanted to get married in a castle. 

\--


	14. xiii. The Truth

-

Not two days later, back in New York City, Martin Chatwin burst into his office absolutely livid. 

“ _Waugh the Outlaw_ , you have got to be _kidding_ me?!” he shouted, a roar loud enough to be heard on the bracketing floors and all the way down the wood-lined hallways.

“It was just a silly nickname,” Sebastian said as he rushed in after him, shutting the double doors to keep the other office workers from overhearing - at least, too clearly. The secretaries were definitely leaning closer and staring without shame. He whirled back around and lowered his voice, in vain hope that Martin would do the same. “He was a minor, never convicted of anything… malicious.” 

“Oh, well, that’s a relief!” He exclaimed, collapsed into his desk chair and roughly pushing his hands through his hair. It gave him a very deranged look that Sebastian did not appreciate, nor how it matched the erratic shine to his eyes. “I don’t know what’s worse; former child felon, or a Midwestern _non-societal_ family fractured about by - _homophobia_ and lower-middle class arrogance.” 

“ _Martin!_ ”

“They will be our in-laws, Rupert!” Martin shouted in defense of his statement, pointing straight at him. “Can you imagine the press? Married into bigotry. Half won’t even show up to the wedding, you realize.”

“And we’ll be all the better for it!” Sebastian snapped back, bracing his clenched hands on the back of the chair facing his brother’s desk. A colossal mahogany monstrosity better fit for the President of the United States than the mayor of New York. After their last argument, one would think he wouldn't feel the need to defend his relationship to Martin - not with the way he had so thoroughly trashed it that past Sunday over brunch. But after a slew of 'heartfelt' apologies, and reminders that they were all they had left (Chatwin family motto) he had forgiven his little brother, and now there he stood. Once again. Defending himself, and Eliot. “What would you have me do, Martin? Dump him for being poor?!”

“Don’t be absurd,” Martin reproached with a scowl, as if he was scandalized by the very idea. “We’re democrats, the essential workers and lower classes are our biggest supporters. What I’m upset about is he _lied_ to you.” Now he was pointing at him again and Sebastian was finding it very hard not to roll his eyes at his brother’s theatrics. “Blindsided you, all of us, about _all of it_.”

“Sorry to be such an inconvenience to you,” Sebastian said, irate and carefully treading the line of his patience. He finally sat down in the leatherback chair before him, so he could glower at his brother on the same eye level. “So he lied, he’s ashamed of his past. Can you blame him? We know better than anyone the stains a family name can leave behind.” Martin scowled at him from his seat.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Pretend away,” Sebastian answered, flippant and waving his hand just so. “I don’t care what you say, or what anyone drudges up. Eliot and I are getting married. I love him.” Martin repressed rolling his eyes, but only just barely. “I’m not changing my mind.” The fact Martin was even daring to say he would was insulting enough, and their stand-off of furrowed stares only went as far as his younger brother’s attention span.

“Fine! Fine, fine, have it your way,” Martin sighed, all but whining, and instead flipped through a stack of folders sitting in a polished organizer. From just the briefest of glances, Sebastian could see flashes of flowers and ballrooms and a whole page of alphabetized credit cards. He wanted to scoff, a smile threatening to slip out because that’s what he did when he was angry or exasperated - fucking smiled. Of course Martin already had wedding plans started and awaiting. Why would one single thing his brother ever did start making sense _now_ , of all times. “And how does Mr. Americana plan on housing 500 guests?” Sebastian cracked his knuckles one at a time, measured breathing in between, to help his ever-tried-patience from slipping from his grasp.

“Number one: we’re having _200_ guests - tops - including the wedding party,” he said as slow and calm as he could, but not so slow that he didn’t speak over Martin’s attempt to interrupt him. He could gape like a fish all he wanted in protest, Sebastian wasn’t going to cave. “ _And two_ : there are plenty of places available for the duration of our stay, including a vast array of vacation homes set up for just such purposes. Can you handle two days without room service?” he chided, with a teasing tilt of his head.

“I will find a way to survive,” Martin ground out and Sebastian merely sent him a mocking smile in response.

“We have a plan, a date, and a venue. Martin, this is happening.” 

The other man looked like he’d rather be stabbed in the face than admit that, but with a grouse and an inhale that had him closing his eyes in silent reprimand, until finally - “Okay. Fine.” Martin stood and rounded the desk to lean against it in front of his brother - a poor attempt at leveling with him - because Sebastian would _not_ be looked down upon like a child receiving a lecture. He was the older brother, God damn it, so he stood as well and put the chair between them. Hands in his pockets and his chin raised a little higher. “Fine. But admit it - I was right.” 

Of course that’s what it was about.

“Yes, you were right,” Sebastian placated, condescendingly. “But Eliot came clean, we know the whole truth of it now, can we _please_ just move on?” Martin scowled again, and sighed dramatically, but relented.

“When this gets out-” he warned.

“It won’t,” Sebastian interrupted. “Because _you_ are going to keep your big, blabbering mouth shut about it. For once in your life.” He stepped up and tried to look as reassuring as possible. If Martin continued to kick up a fuss it would be a long, miserable three months. More so than he was already expecting, from the look of that stack of resources he’d already compiled. “The press are expecting The Plaza in June, not the middle of Indiana in two months.” He’d meant it to be a good turning point in the conversation, to help his brother ease up on everything.

“Jesus Christ,” he swore instead, patting at his forehead like the mere thought was making him sweat. Fucking dramatics.

“Shape up, Martin,” Sebastian grinned, patting his brother on the shoulder companionably. “We have a wedding to plan - and we can’t do it without you.” 

“Damn right you can’t,” Martin muttered, finally giving in to rolling his eyes. “Fine, fine. Just -leave it all to me. And Eliot. You’d be hopeless for most of it, we’ll fetch you when you’re needed.” Sebastian kept that plastic grin up even though his expression cracked a bit at his brother’s statement. Now he had to break that bit of information to Eliot.

Oh, joy.

-

As soon as Eliot returned home he was _buried_ in work. The amount of messages he had to pour through alone took him hours that first night.

His show had been such a huge success he already had a long list of investors, sponsors, clients and project appointments lined up _months_ in advance; and he immediately got to piss Marina off to the point she was speechless. By telling her he needed to reschedule everything possible about 3 months out. Because he was getting married. There was not going to be time for much else beyond a handful of projects and meetings. 

She had many things to say about that, at length, with much profanity; but had gotten the job done and Eliot bought her a very expensive dinner as a thank you the following week.

When Sebastian had finished breaking the news to Martin, Eliot was warned only a half hour ahead of time before he was bombarded with emails, texts, and a visit from _Todd_ \- who’d been sent to deliver a stack of wedding planning books and magazines for Eliot’s reference. Martin may have thought he was overwhelming Eliot, but on the contrary - information overload was how he worked best. Eliot poured through every book and magazine _that night_ , tore out page after page and cut them up to make one of his signature inspiration books; one for Margo and one for Martin, because they would both want their own copies he was sure. He used to pitch his clothing lines and projects the same way years ago, as he finished his degree at Parson’s and started working for Margo. Pages of messy aesthetic boards was honestly how he processed anything in life. Pinterest had been the bane of his existence for a _very long_ time.

But he wasn’t even through the first night, surrounded by the torn out pieces of his dream wedding that he never even had the first time around, collaged on his apartment floor where he sat - when he started to think of Quentin. 

Sebastian, who was a literal saint and Eliot should _not_ be comparing them in any way, shape, or form, had forgiven Eliot. Forgave him for that massive pile of lies he’d built his persona around because - he got it. He understood. Eliot had come to New York and just lied through his teeth about his background, thinking it would never be under a microscope. Who wouldn’t want to go to a new city and pretend their old life didn’t exist? To make up an origin story that was much less tragic and _Law & Order: SVU _ plot-wise. 

He knew Quentin would understand that, too. They used to make up stories all the time, covert operations that they would giggle about behind their hands if they ever traveled outside Rush County. Eliot just wanted to explain himself, how those little stories weren’t meant to hurt him or anyone, but to help create an armor for himself as he rebuilt his image in the big city. He just wanted to explain - 

So, against all better judgment, Eliot called Quentin. Listened to the phone ring. And chickened out when it rolled to voicemail. 

He wouldn’t have answered, either.

The second time he called was a couple of nights later, and that time he did leave a voicemail. He apologized, again, (he was getting rather good at it) and asked Q to let him explain himself. Of course, he received no answer - not even a text - and Eliot couldn’t even find it in himself to be surprised. 

-

That first week Eliot and Martin solidified the Brakebills Estate as the venue over brunch, and as much as Eliot thought he had shown up to the meeting over-prepared for anything the mayor could throw at him - he’d been dead wrong. Martin had brought folders, print outs, paid deposit slips and lists upon lists of approved caterers, bakers, florists, decorators, anything they could need. There was no need to hire a wedding planner: they had Martin.

“Brakebills is actually perfect for a multitude of reasons,” he’d begun his presentation, the two sitting at a long conference table at their country club - reserved just for them and their privacy. The amount of unoccupied table space was actually comical, as was the spread of petit fours and silver tea sets. “We can control the security there remarkably well, and keep your cover story afloat as long as possible.”

“My cover story?” Eliot asked around a bite of cucumber sandwich, choking on the amount of dill in it. Martin probably wouldn’t appreciate it if he spit it out. Herbs are enhancers, not palate cleansers; for God’s sake. 

Martin eyed him carefully, a lot of unsaid words behind the smirk settled there in his face. “That it is your childhood home. I’m assuming you don’t want the tabloid exposé to be released _before_ you marry my brother?” Eliot swallowed the bite harshly, and sat up straighter as he dismissed his plate of food with a careful push towards the center of the table. 

“I’m getting the feeling it’ll be much worse if it happens after,” he pointed out, considering.

“It’s going to be bad no matter what, so we need to prolong it until you two are old news and line it up with something much more terrible,” Martin said easily. Just one more bullet point on his agenda; he had already thought about it. Rehearsed his argument, probably. His smirk turned smug as he stirred more sugar into his tea. “Leave it to my press team, they are professionals.” 

The two covered far more than Eliot had thought they would. They had dove right in as soon as they sat down, and were whisked away just as quickly when it was over; a flurry of planning and scheduling and Eliot was already feeling like he was getting a very harsh glimpse of his future at some point. This wouldn’t be the last thing Martin Chatwin planned that involved him and Sebastian, he was sure. The two parted ways in separate town cars, saying their farewells on the curb.

“Thank you, Martin,” Eliot said, swallowing his pride. “You’ve thought of everything, it seems.”

“Hmm, I always do,” Martin said, appreciatively. “I think you’ll be seeing me more than you’ll be seeing Rupert the next few weeks, with all we have to plan.” Eliot forced out an airy laugh and smile that felt like broken glass.

“Perish the thought.”

“Keep in touch, darling,” Martin chimed back, giving him the god-awful air kisses Eliot hated more than life and was swept away by his security team. Todd waved at Eliot from inside the car, and El allowed himself to groan out loud about it as they drove away.

-

As much as he had hoped Martin to be wrong about his prediction, he was _not_ . Eliot and Sebastian didn’t get much choice in a lot of their wedding, usually left choosing between two or three already selected options in just about every category. Everything was being shipped from New York, in giant trucks with workers from the actual Manhattan companies (being paid extra; double or triple, El was sure) to go all the way out there and make sure everything was perfection. Martin had Standards ™ . The engaged couple were swept through meeting after meeting of interior decorators, flower arrangements, chefs, pastry chefs, wine sommeliers, and Eliot _did_ in fact see Martin more than he saw Sebastian the following weeks. Being the Secretary of City Planning, he couldn’t change his schedule at the drop of the hat, so there were many times it was just Martin and El making the decisions. 

In fact, the only time they got to see each other, just the two of them, was a standing date on Friday nights where they had to hold separate alibis to hide from Martin. It was… so sad, even though they laughed themselves to pieces over it. Sneaking around like teenagers. 

And yet, at night - when Eliot was in his apartment, by himself, he found himself calling Quentin. 

Trying just _one more time_ to get the other man to hear him out. They had been so close to a careful reconciliation, where they could go and grow and have their own lives, until that final day. Until that kiss. Eliot tried to forget the kiss, but it was so hard. It haunted him, especially in those quiet hours alone. He bet it haunted Quentin as well, otherwise he would have answered his calls by then. 

Over the weeks, he’d left an elaborate series of voicemails that explained pretty much everything. Every step and trip and lie he’d stumbled over while he was trying to find his feet years ago. The winding paths his life had taken him, memories that plagued his thoughts and dreams, and - after a while, he forgot what he was even telling the other because he was sure that the other man wasn’t even listening. His voicemail inbox was never full, he had to be deleting them. But still, Eliot tried. He would have given anything to hear Quentin’s voice, even if it was to tell him to fuck off. 

He didn’t even have an outgoing message for his voicemail, just the automated rattling of his phone number. So Eliot kept calling, for weeks and weeks. 

-

Margo was making Eliot’s suit for the wedding. He wouldn’t have asked anyone else, even with all their connections, and even if he knew his own measurements by heart. They had way more fittings than necessary, conveniently when Martin was busy with mayoral duties, where he got measured again and again and they spent hours gossiping while Marina drank her weight in champagne on the chaise lounge behind them. Their Sunday brunches had been interrupted by Martin’s wedding planning frenzy as well, so they made due with what they could. 

It was after one of those nights, where Eliot had returned to his home a little too warm and lofty from the champagne, that he tried to call Quentin (out of habit more than anything by that point, finding a small amount of joy and relief in talking at the other’s ghost) to find his number was blocked. 

He’d been so shocked that he tried to call again, out of a half-drunk misconception that something might change between one automatic dial and the next. But he still got that automated message of disconnection, without grace or apology telling him to fuck right off and have a nice night. 

He’d dropped his phone to the floor and drank until he passed out.

-

The final time Eliot attempted to reach Q, was the following morning; where a much more sober Eliot thought about what all the implications could mean that Quentin had blocked his number. So, he sucked it up and reached out to Julia, instead. 

She _also_ did not answer his call (he really didn’t expect her to) so he left her a voicemail. He was very skilled at it by then, he had thought; usually he could manage the time allotment well and know right away when his time slot was coming to a close. But, this time he fumbled. He told her he just wanted to ask if Q was okay, briefly described in a rambling, uncharacteristic way what he’d been doing and eventually ran out of time in the message - he couldn’t have even told anyone what he’d said. He hoped Julia had gotten the gist of it, though.

Apparently, she did, because she immediately called him back two minutes later.

“Listen, Eliot, Quentin is fine,” she said, not even giving him a chance to say her name in greeting. “He’s moving out of the house, it’s on the market, he’s cutting ties and getting ready to set up a new life outside Louisville.” Eliot closed his mouth, not realizing it had frozen open on a spoken word. Then found himself unable to conjure another one. Wasn’t that… what he had wanted? What they had said they should do? Before everything had blown up at the fairgrounds. “I know you want some kind of closure, but you kind of shot yourself in the foot on that one so just let it go. Let him go.” She was trying to say it kindly, but she wasn’t very successful. Eliot still felt every word rip through him, leaving a thinly sliced wound bleeding out in its wake. Death by a thousand cuts. “Stop reaching out, you have to stop. Especially two weeks before your wedding - c’mon.” 

Eliot knew she was right, heard himself tell her so. 

He also knew that Quentin hadn’t told Julia about the kiss, or what they went though that night, because she would have sooner slapped him than given him a pep talk if she had. Quentin was bottling it all up, again. Just like him.

“...he’s really okay?” he asked, a quiet disbelief there in each syllable. Julia just sighed in response.

“No, but - he’s not in a bad place. He’s trying to heal, El, we just have to let him. You didn’t get to see everything he’s got going for him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind. Quentin’s going to be okay, Eliot. Leave him be.” She said it with such gentle finality Eliot knew there was nowhere else for him to turn. This was really the end of the line, and Q was just going to disappear in the distance without another word. Without Eliot knowing for sure he was really going to be okay without him.

“Okay, thanks Jules.” 

He didn’t sound convinced in the slightest, and by Julia’s loud exhale into the speaker she knew so as well. That the real core of her lecture had just gone in one ear and out the other. 

“See you at the wedding.”

-

Eliot and Margo flew to Indiana earlier than the Chatwins, by a good eight hours. He wanted to get back out there and get acquainted with the land and the air before he had to put on a smile and pretend it meant sometime more to him than painfully biased childhood memories and night terrors. He hadn’t wanted to go alone, this time, and Sebastian couldn’t go with him. Bad luck before the wedding, and all. So Margo joined him, first class, and they had a _grand_ old time. Day drinking, caviar, being the extra-mega-bitches that they loved to pretend to be. Their spontaneous _Treat yo self_ day melting into close-knit talks that they hadn’t gotten to indulge in as much the past 10 weeks - what with Martin occupying all of Eliot’s time. They got into the nitty-gritty stuff just as the plane touched down in Indianapolis, walking about like their normal topics of discussion were the meaning of marriage and what qualified a fulfilling life. 

“You remember that model/actress? The cute one with the dimples,” Margo stated, pulling her carry-on behind her. Her version of casual being a stunning body-con dress and artfully loose sandalwood sweater, to stay comfy on the airplane. Even her hair looked professionally tousled, as if in preparation for a photoshoot - but that was just how she dressed. 

“Oh yes, you two were a serious thing for a while.” Eliot was just as polished and poised as ever, if only a little more dressed down than normal. He was very much in love with the polo-shirt and suspenders look he’d tried over the summer. This time the jacket was able to be utilized a bit more, now that summer had waned and autumn was beginning to show its colors.

“She proposed to me, before we split it off.”

“And you said no?!” Eliot exclaimed, looking at her like she was crazy. She had been all over that woman.

“Despite her billions of revenue, and the sex - yes, I know,” Margo teased, strutting through the airport like the goddess she was as they exited their gate. 

“But why?” Eliot truly had thought they would be tying the knot six months ago on a beach in the Bahamas. 

“My head and my heart said two different things,” Margo told him, safely and without hesitation. She knew whatever they said would only be kept between them. Eliot felt himself falter, then nodded and accepted her break in character because of the depth of that response. It was… very valid.

He told her as such. “And smart, to boot. I’d admire your level of self-awareness. Marriage is too big a decision to commit if you aren’t sure.” He’d realized what he said before he could take it back. Margo just halted her trek, and looked at him over her shoulder - visibly confused. 

“It’s supposed to be the easiest choice you ever make,” she elaborated, staring so hard Eliot felt the heat of it burn his skin. But then shook off her scrutiny with a graceful twist back forward towards the baggage claim. “And for me, it wasn’t. So, bye-bye babydoll. Thanks for the memories.” Eliot scoffed half-aware it sounded a little too nervous to come out of his mouth, and did his best to not let her sage advice sink too deep into his psyche. They had the same mentality, just shake it off and keep on struttin’.

Then, something caught his eye on the wall of the terminal.

“Oh! Bambi this is it! The bourbon I was telling you about!” _Thunderhead Reserve Bourbon & Whiskeys _ distillery was there on the wall, the logo loud and proud above an ad for a beautiful little cluster of buildings. A restaurant and shop and factory out in the foothills about two hours South of their destination. Margo hummed in appreciation as she bumped his hip with hers, pulling his arm over her shoulders as she considered the advertisement. 

“You _know_ I’m a whiskey girl.” The words GRAND OPENING were typed in bold white lettering, and they looked at each other after reading it. “Detour?”

“Oh yes, lets.” 

-

They pulled up to the distillery a short road trip later; the cluster of buildings designed to look like old wooden barns appeared exactly as they had in the airport ad. There was a neatly fenced parking lot, an adorable bridge that crossed over the stream that flowed through the property, and the grounds were landscaped to look like a natural MidWestern farm. Just much, much cleaner. 

“Quaint, cute, I feel like I should be learning my farm animal sounds,” Margo smirked, escorting Eliot across the bridge arm in arm. They saw the café and restaurant in a separate building, filled with chatting customers and wafting the most delicious smells, spotted a shop filled with namebrand merchandise, and a glass blower around one side of the barn by the working water wheel in the rapid flow of the stream. They could see a demonstration being done there, showing how the custom designed bottles were made. In the middle of it all was the main building that housed the distillery, the entrance up a bleached wrap around porch that led them straight into the brewing process museum tour. It was very elaborate, and Eliot found himself smiling and forgetting about his wedding for the first time in months.

“This place really did well pulling from a lot of local patrons, it looks like. So smart. Someone is very business savvy,” he said, half purring in his lofty drawl, making Margo laugh beside him.

“You look like a kid at Christmas.”

“I love distilleries,” Eliot grinned, the smell of fermentation and burned wood filling his senses. He was already half-way up the porch steps with Margo’s hand grasped in his own. This damn whiskey had been on his brain ever since he’d tasted it at Ted’s pop-up bar; and no - he could _not_ get it in New York. He was planning on buying a whole damn case while he was here. “I can’t wait to figure out the secret to that vibrant, ozone-esque burned notes I am _so obsessed_ wit-”

A giant, floor to ceiling photo print was displayed just inside the doors. It was a black and white photo of a White Oak tree, split open, burning from the inside out. 

It was _their_ tree. Right there, in front of him. 

“I see you got your answer,” Margo chuckled, coming up beside him to admire the photo, and startled when Eliot didn’t answer her. “Eliot?” She took in his wide eyes, his shallow breath, and immediately dropped her quirked smile. “El? What is it?”

“Oh, no,” Eliot whispered, breathless. 

He whirled, turning in every direction, taking in every inch of the displays laid out elaborately across the room. There were information cards, more floor to ceiling photos, descriptions on the unique distilling process, even meteorology reports on Midwestern lightning storms - courtesy of _Dr. Julia Wicker, storm specialist_ \- and Eliot wasn’t sure he was breathing. Everything everyone had been trying to tell him, but kept getting shut down, finally fell into place. 

And then there he was.

Not just the picture, beside the other founders of the brand and company - listed as _the_ lead founder, the one who created the whole concept front he ground up - but Quentin himself was there. Standing on the upper floor, leaning against the open railing and talking to another employee, a cluster of offices lining the walls that would keep their work away from prying visitor eyes. But Eliot was watching, unabashedly, and Quentin looked away from his conversation to survey the ground floor and his eyes locked onto Eliot’s. Immediately. 

“How do they set the trees on fire like that?” Margo asked, slow and fully aware of Eliot’s crisis - but also doing her best to drag him out of it. She had never seen him like this before, it was worrying her in a vast array of ways. 

“They don’t,” Eliot answered, his voice far away, but he tore his gaze away from Q’s to look back at the life-size photo of their tree once more. It was the same photo, from that same night when they had been fifteen years old; proof that lightning does indeed strike the same place twice. The flames so vibrant in the high-def contrast he half expected them to flicker. “It’s what happens when lightning strikes a tall tree, in just the right way.” When he looked back to Quentin, their revolving stares snapping back together like magnets at every turn, he caught Q staring at him as well. Softer, somehow. Nervous. Tucking his hair behind his ear; and Eliot was awestruck by the enormity of it all. His brain hadn’t caught up yet, his ego didn’t dare to think about it. 

But… was this all for _him_? It couldn’t be.

“I think he can see you,” Margo whispered beside him, leaning in for dramatic effect.

“Yeah, I got that, Bambi.” Quentin was lured away by his work, and Eliot was left staring forlornly after him. 

“So,” Margo cleared her throat, demanding his attention. “Since we’re pretending to ignore all of that, until you come back down to Earth with the rest of us, can you explain this more to me? How does your mysterious ‘ _he_ ’ have enough wood to make the barrels for all this whiskey? Lightning doesn’t strike that much, I’m assuming.”

 _He_. Quentin. He’d done all of this? 

“He, um - doesn’t,” Eliot articulated, forcing the words out. “Whiskey is regulated pretty strictly, professionally made barrels are required. Q’s family supplies a few lumber yards that go to the barrel factories for charring.” He’d been on distillery tours before, _with_ Quentin, learning the process and watching them set blow torches to spinning barrels as they burned to a precise degree. An expertly dangerous science. “But - decades ago, prohibition-era, people were making illegal corn whiskey-”

“ _Moonshine_?! I’ve always wanted legit moonshine,” Margo gushed with a feral grin.

“ _Corn_ whiskey, you felon,” Eliot tisked her. “But yes, in glass mason jars like moonshine. They would try to get that same smoky flavor and color from aging by floating pieces of charred wood in them.” It was insanely clever, Eliot realized, as he looked at a few more process photos on the walls. Super creative, and his lips were turned up in a fond smile at the thought. 

“So, he’s double smoking them?”

“Wrong term, but yes. With lightning charred oak,” he felt a laugh escape him in a huff. Incredible. “That’s why I could taste the ozone.” Margo was smirking at him in the softest way, able to see something behind Eliot’s eyes and in his face that he… really didn’t need her commenting on. She knew him better than anyone, really, except maybe Quentin.

“That’s pretty impressive,” she said, raising an eyebrow at Eliot and waiting for him to admit the same. Or admit something else.

“Thanks,” Quentin said behind them, Margo and Eliot whipping around to see him at the bottom of the wooden staircase, approaching carefully. Margo just gave him a wide smile, a _real_ one, and nodded in acknowledgement. Then, pat Eliot on the side and took her leave to explore the informationals. She didn’t even bother with an introduction. From the dumbstruck looks on those boys faces, she knew they wouldn’t have been able to hear her if she’d tried.

Quentin had his hands in his pockets - again, Eliot was fiddling with the rings on his hands - again, and neither could look away from the other’s face. Not even for a moment. 

“Guess you found me,” Q tried to joke, no smile making its way to his lips. 

“I wasn’t-” Eliot was quick to defend the stalkery-looking situation, but Q cut him off with a soft shake of his head.

“I know. You followed your nose, or your liver. Whatever.” There was that trace of a smile, daring to lift up one side of his mouth, and Eliot didn’t know what to do with it. How to respond.

“I… I tried to call you, a couple of times.”

“A couple, huh?” Quentin outright smirked at that.

“Couple dozen, whatever,” Eliot relented with a dramatic sigh that had Q’s smile tearing open a little wider. “I guess you got the voicemails.” Quentin ducked his head to his the grin he couldn’t smother, and Eliot bit back a groan of humiliation. The sheer amount he’d left was probably more than embarrassing; he’d ended up using Q’s inbox as a confessional for weeks. “Um, Julia said you were okay,” he admitted, Quentin glancing up in accusation that he had called around about him. “I got worried,” that confession was just as quiet but still solid and true. “But she said you were fine so I stopped calling - I didn’t want to. I just took the hint.” 

“After eight weeks.”

Eliot winced, but tried to make it look like it stung less than it did.

“Yeah, I - needed to wrap my head around a lot of it,” Quentin explained. “Process. The voicemails… helped with that; getting my head in the right place.” He went silent and Eliot was afraid of the pleasant tone, the softness, the careful treading that sparked and promised there could have been so much more. This could have been a very different meeting. 

“And?” Eliot asked, pushing the boundary once more. 

Because he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help but _want_ whatever Q was giving off. They would always be that way, charged and wanting. God help them.

Quentin looked up, smiling at him sad and soft and… forgiving. Understanding.

Conceding.

Eliot’s heart was in his throat as he watched Quentin give up the fight right in front of him, watched him give into the look of love and devotion he couldn’t keep out of his eyes no matter how hard he tried - and then, not do a _damn_ thing about it.

“You and your friend should stay and take the tour, it’s - it’s pretty neat. I think… you’d really like it,” Quentin said quietly, earnestly. “It’s practically made for you.”

“Q,” Eliot’s voice cracked. He almost caved, he could see that Quentin wanted him to - fuck it all, Eliot wanted to. But he didn’t take another step closer, and neither did Q. The great abyss stretched before them, and it felt like an ocean when it was only a few measly feet. 

But he couldn’t move.

“Hope you enjoy it,” Quentin told him, dragging out the moment in that clipped, careful way only he could. But when Eliot didn’t move a muscle, he walked away - right past Eliot and out the distillery doors. Eliot couldn’t even bring himself to watch him go. He’d lost that right. He just closed his eyes against the pain in his chest, wrecking him from the inside and out, and waited for Margo to come find him and whisk him away once more. 

-

Too stunned to really notice when the roads were becoming more and more familiar, Eliot was glad he didn’t have the mental capacity to worry about his best friend and mentor witnessing his hometown. Knightsville and Carthage had blown past the windows with nary a blink out of Eliot, and although Margo was very much taking in the scenery - she was more in tune with Eliot and his minor breakdown. He was also driving the car; sue her for being hyper-vigilant. It’s not like she knew how to drive.

They arrived at the Waugh farm at the peak of the mid-afternoon sun, and the place looked very cleaned up (for a farm). His mom must have been bossing around Daniel for days to get the ground looking that spic and span. They were welcomed much like Eliot’s first night home months ago, and Margo was swept up in warm hugs and great big smiles, and sometime in the middle of his mild catatonic state she had bonded with them before dinner was even set. He’d suddenly looked up and saw them talking a lot more easily than he’d expected. Margo caught his eyes and winked at him, saying a little louder “I can see where Eliot gets his good taste,” in such a teasing tone Eliot could only sigh and stick his tongue out at her lazily. 

“Like the sister we never wanted, huh?” Daniel ribbed right back, earning himself a sharp elbow in his side from the smaller woman.

“She’ll kick your ass, Dan, don’t test her,” Eliot warned him. His money would always be on Margo. No one better to have in your corner. Their mother just hummed in appreciation and poured Margo some more wine, and then herself. Margo’s confidence seemed to be catching, and Eliot couldn’t say he didn’t mind that look on his mom.

The two friends were going to stay in the guest room Eliot had occupied over the summer, bunked together with a second mattress like they had grown up together all their lives. It wouldn’t be their first sleep over in the same bed, anyway. She got him for a full day before the Chatwins arrived to oversee preparations and attend the rehearsal dinner. So, before they got there and took over Eliot’s every waking second, Margo insisted on a ‘quick’ visit up at the farmhouse where the Waugh family used to live - curious about Eliot’s life growing up on a farm in rural Indiana. It didn’t match the man that had worked his ass for her for years after fashion school, but now that they were there - she could see the roots dug deep into the ground. How he still fit into certain places with an ease that could only come from a lifetime of muscle-memory. 

So they went up to the old house, through the impeccable clean and modern farmhouse decor that now adorned rooms and hallways Eliot had very few fond memories about, and all the way up to the attic; where his mom had stashed away all his old clothes and memorabilia from his room. Since the house was still being rented on the regular, and he hadn’t been home to claim a room in the trailer, she hadn’t brought any of his personal things out to the double-wide. The Chatwins had actually rented out their farm house to stay in during the wedding, since it had more than enough accommodation for the three to have all their separate spaces along with live-in security. That probably said something very pointed and unkind about the separation in classes between their families, but Eliot was outright ignoring it. He’d been doing that a lot lately.

The attic was bright fresh oak, from the Coldwater forestry of course, built years and years ago and updated by Eliot’s father and his brothers barely ten or twelve years ago. He still had a thing about splinters, after that horrific summer. But the space was open and pleasantly warm and filled with a very organized labyrinth of cardboard and plastic boxes. A collapsible clothing rack holding suits and his mom’s wedding gown, heavy work coats that belonged to the late John Waugh, all catching the light from the single cut out window that would have made it all picture-esque if Eliot bothered to feel one way or the other about it.

They stayed… very far away from the corner designated for all his father’s old things, and instead buried themselves in his little pile of sharpie adorned boxes. Pouring through the contents for the remainder of the daylight hours, filled with more memories than Eliot had ever dared to count. Not ones dealing with his family, or the farm, but of him and his friends and the family-unit they had built for themselves in the wasteland that surrounded them. A lot of it looked like junk, all piled together in there haphazardly, but Eliot knew every piece. There was a vast array of movie ticket stubs, where they would hide out on hot summer nights when they could afford to do so, old concert tickets when their part-time jobs really kicked in the money they couldn’t convince themselves to save, his scene-kid wardrobe and accessories for that four long year phase right in the worst of the teen years - which he had _not_ wanted Margo to find. But she did, putting on as many bracelets and leather cuffs and chain necklaces as she could fit until she looked beyond ridiculous. He found old lockboxes that his father had somehow never found or broken into, with an assortment of old colored glass pipes and various other paraphernalia. And photos. So many photos. They flipped through those alone for over an hour.

“So, what are you so nervous about?” Margo asked him once the sun was down and they had to plug in an ancient lamp to keep looking through his old things. She was admiring her insanely expensive manicure beneath a pair of neon green fishnet gloves, and Eliot was about to snatch that rave accessory box from her hands if she didn’t stop digging through it. She looked at him, expecting an answer before she launched into a lecture; because it was obvious El was nervous as all get out. “Martin is the devil, sure, but he’s the devil we know. Better to be a Knight of Hell than in his way, _and_ having in-laws that are working class will help him next election. He’ll play nice.” She was going for reassurance, but Eliot didn’t think he was going to be able to calm down in the next few days for anything.

“ _Knight of Hell_?” he complained at her with a scrunch to his face. 

“Supernatural,” she told him, staring at him like he should know.

“Yeah, I didn’t finish that one.” She chucked a leather wrist cuff at his head. “What? There’s like fifteen seasons and a million episodes each. I have a life.” 

“Did it have anything to do with these little league participation trophies?” She said with a smirk, juggling a couple and peering through the figurine’s like an _avant-garde_ monocle. At Eliot’s exasperated expression, the most controlled emotion she had been able to pry out of him for hours, her smirk went more wide and feral. “Let’s make them outfits.” 

And that would be how Eliot and Margo spent the night ripping apart old Claire’s and Spencer’s jewelry to create evening wear and dominatrix outfits for every sports trophy in the attic. Between himself and his brothers, they had a lot to work with. Margo glanced at him a little too often for Eliot not to notice, questions threatening to bubble out about the vast array of photos they had gone through and how one person in particular had been in the majority of them. Always pressed close together, his too long hair a contrast to Eliot’s unruly curls in all the best of ways; just like the height difference that increased with each passing year all the way through high school. The one person she still didn’t know much about, beyond a name printed on a distillery wall - but she never brought it up. 

Eliot was grateful for the distraction she had created for him, but a small part of his self-denial was disappointed she never pressed him about Quentin Coldwater. No matter how much he wasn’t sure he would have been able to handle it.

-

The next day the Chatwins arrived, pulling up in a black SUV with security like Martin was the damn president, and Eliot rolled his eyes without shame. And they called _him_ extra. Margo was laughing about it too, just as openly - as was Sebastian, who did a very animated eye roll to mock Eliot’s when he stepped out of the vehicle. But then he was rewarded with a very familiar wink as Sebastian held the door open for his sister. Martin was swatting at flies that didn’t exist, and that was almost just as funny.

“Oh! They’re here!” Eliot’s mom came rushing out like the Chatwin siblings were their long lost relatives, running up and hugging Sebastian before Eliot even got a chance to. Sebastian, ever the charmer, embraced her and kissed her cheek, introducing Eliza who did the same. Martin kissed _both_ her cheeks, no air kisses for her, and did his weird pivot thing to shake Daniel’s hand enthusiastically. His million watt smile on full force. 

“What a beautiful farm you have!” Oh wow, he had it firing on all cylinders. Eliot reached for Sebastian’s hand and prayed for strength. It was going to be the battle of terribly good-natured compliments and over exaggerated emotions. “The colors are so vibrant and rich, I absolutely adore it.” 

“We’re so happy to be here,” Eliza gushed in her own way, but she actually meant it. Eliot just tisked and ticked his head to the side muttering under his breath, _Oh babe, no, just let them get it out. Stay in your lane._ And Sebastian had to cough to cover his laugh. There would be so many more hugs and that God-awful, awkwardly weird mix of earnest and fake statements, but that was such a typical MidWestern thing. Martin was fitting right in, he’d be horrified to learn. 

“We’re so happy to have you!” his mom answered Eliza with just as much joy as Martin was pretending to show. “I’m so sorry everything is such a mess. Farmlife never sleeps!” she tried to jest, laughing. Then, turning to address Martin she added “Do we call you Mayor Chatwin? Or-”

“Oh no, don’t you dare. Martin, please.” 

“Such a beautiful family, all of you. Look how gorgeous they all are,” Eliot’s mom went on to no one in particular. 

“As do you, all handsome strapping boys from what I hear. They must take after you,” Martin said, all charm and schmoozing. No wonder he won over New York.

“Okay, enough flirting you two,” Eliot interrupted, pretending to gag at the prospect. “Martin, interested in a drink?”

“Very,” Martin answered, gravely. “Very, _very_ long day.”

“Well come on in!” Eliot’s mom exclaimed, ushering everyone inside, and linking arms with Eliza as she did. “I’ve been baking like it’s Christmas break when they boys were teenagers. You’ll eat til you burst! I’ve made all kinds of cookies, and banana bread, and _zucchini_ bread - which is my personal favorite -”

“Sounds lovely, Mrs. Waugh.”

Sebastian was Eliot’s solid force through the whole evening. As was Margo, flanking Eliot’s other side so they bracketed him no matter where the evening turned. Synchronized in handling Eliot’s state of near constant panic, while still keeping the Chatwin siblings in line. It went fairly well, especially with Margo directing conversations like a pro. They even managed to get Eliot out on the porch to breathe in the night air, having nothing to do with Sebastian sending panic signals behind his back to Margo before they corralled him. Eliot spent most of the night on a very distant planet, disassociating like it was his day job.

“See, everything went _fine_ ,” Margo told him pointedly, at the end of the night when the Chatwins and their security detail were heading back across the property towards the farmhouse.

“You were worried?” Sebastian asked, aghast, and Eliot just gave him a look at his teasing. Sebastian just kissed the look off his face and smiled despite the ups and downs of the evening.

“Day one down, two to go,” Eliot muttered, and Sebastian shook his head with a grin. Directing Margo to take care of him as he left the two at the trailer. As far as first meetings went, it really _hadn’t_ been that bad. 

But it did absolutely nothing to comfort Eliot about the future. 

-

In the Carthage conglomerate building, which housed the local bank, post office, and farmer’s association offices, former Principal Henry Fogg was speaking to his bank teller, Penny Adiyodi, on business matters when a man came in. Those ‘business matters’ may or may not have had to do with whoever was causing little incidents of chaos (removing staplers and replacing them when someone had left the room, screenshoting the computer screens and setting it as the background before hiding all the icons, juvenile stuff - _really, Penny you should know better_ ), and were easily ceased at the sight of the stranger. The man was dressed in a cheap suit, with a well groomed mustache and a weasel-like quality to his face that Penny immediately scowled at.

“Excuse me, I’m hoping you can point me in the direction of the post office? I need to make an inquiry about an address,” he said, New York accent thinly veiled by his very faux pleasantries.

“I am the owner of these establishments, and I know everyone in Rush County; perhaps I can be of assistance,” Fogg told him, smiling pleasantly enough although it didn’t change the expression in his stone-chiseled face.

“Oh! I’m looking for Eliot Waugh,” the man said with an even wider smile. “It’s pertaining to a very important matter.”

“Is that so? I’m afraid I don’t recognize that name, do you?” he turned to Penny, who just shook his head, although his expression was much less convincing. “May I ask what matter is so important?”

“Well, I’m afraid that’s a _private_ matter.”

“Oh,” Fogg chuckled, with that same dead, plastic, practiced smile that made all his students tremble for years and years. “Then I’m afraid we can’t help you.”

“Thank you for stopping by,” Penny added, his tone bleeding the words _fuck you very much_ in between the lines. The man frowned, troubled, and left before he could test the two aggressive men before him. They glared him all the way out the door.

“The first of the press leeches,” Fogg said gravely, handing a stack of H.R. papers to Penny while keeping an eye on where the man headed as he left the double brass doorway. Penny just sniffed a scoff in response.

“If you ever wanted to make it big, now’s your chance,” Penny said in his usual dead-pan tone.

“No, thank you,” Fogg mentioned off-handedly. “I’m too pretty for TV.” Penny snorted out a laugh, grinning all the way back to his work desk. 

This was going to be a very interesting weekend. 

\--


	15. xiv. The Wedding

-

The day of the wedding came so much faster than Eliot had anticipated - literally, it felt instantaneous. The rehearsal dinner had, apparently, gone off without a hitch. Eliot barely remembered it. Or the daytime activities before it; where he’d been a frantic mess and Martin a commanding dictator and Margo kept both in check by snapping at Martin a  _ lot _ and keeping Eliot well fed with champagne to calm him down. That probably had something to do with his lack of memory.

But the venue was gorgeous.

The arch was set up in the gardens for an outside ceremony, candles in antique hurricane glasses lined the space on tall posts, standing sentient and draped in flowers and wisteria and trailing greenery. White rose petals blanketed the floor beneath the audience chairs, lining the isle of green grass, matching the white seats of the dark mahogany chairs. 300 of them. (Martin had won that battle). It was seriously pinterest worthy and more than one worker was definitely taking pictures for that purpose.

There was a full jazz band prepping in the castle for the reception, dressed to the nines, while expertly trained waiting staff and decorators created an equally picturesque reception fit for royalty. Crystal place settings and elaborate centerpieces adorned the pure white table clothes, the entire ensemble costing more than most attendee’s vehicles. All surrounding a raised, man-made fountain and beautiful wooden dancefloor laid over the castle stonework. Hundreds of small golden white lights hovered over the space on delicate strings, creating the perfect soft glow setting, and Eliot was  _ not _ supposed to be seeing any of it. Yet. 

But of course he was. He and Margo had to take a peek, or six, at everything as they passed through the elaborately high ceilinged hallways, directed to go straight to his dressing quarters on the upper floor and nowhere else. Which left them giggling like children as they darted from doorway to doorway avoiding anyone who would recognize their faces, trying to get a good eye on what the layout would be. Eliot had the advantage of a high vantage point. The whole ordeal was, honestly, the first time Eliot had smiled that day. That… didn’t seem quite right. But he pushed it back of his mind with all the other worries, labeling that area ‘cold feet material’ and decidedly didn’t listen to it, no matter how much it churned in his gut.

They did eventually make it upstairs to one of the bedrooms, where he was supposed to be getting ready the past couple hours, and that was where he resided when guests started to arrive. Limos from the city one after the other in a line like ants on the way to the picnic, ferrying so many important guests from New York that they vastly outnumbered the actual friends and family they’d wanted in attendance. Sebastian would have been happy with twenty people, if he could have gotten away with it. But the amount of people in designer dresses and shoes only available on 5th Avenue was intimidating to say the least, especially to the friends who lived in Indiana and didn’t mind walking in heels across the grass to the gardens at the back of the estate. Overwhelming as the attendance was, that at least was fun to watch, as was watching people actually be  _ turned away _ from the castle.

Penny, Kady, and Julia witnessed one such instance; as they skirted the beautiful metalwork windows on the Southside of the castle to take the long route through the gardens. It was assigned seating, anyway, and they didn’t feel like small talk with whoever they got stuck next to. Penny was dateless, his wife still back ‘visiting her parents in Bombay’ so Julia and Kady had taken pity on him and asked him to be their third wheel. Offering to help find the third future Mrs. Penny Adiyodi, which he didn’t counter or laugh at. “Or Mister, you know; whatever life decides to throw at you next,” Julia said with her quirked little half-smile. 

“Never bothered me none,” Penny droned, surveying the limo lines like it was a rather boring circus event. “By the look of all these crones, though, I’m more likely to make it as a gold digger. Think I’ll luck out with my seating arrangement?”

“I’m sure El has us all sitting next to each other,” Kady had reasoned with them, tugging at the hems of her sleeves to straighten out the dinner jacket of her tailored suit. It fit her like a glove and complimented Julia’s elegant sepia gown Eliot may or may not have mailed her a week before. 

A risk, he knew, but he knew how much Julia hated shopping, and had noticed how many times she’d been liking his instagram photos going through his collections. Julia had smiled at the dress, despite herself, called him a pompous jerk under her breath - and took far too long to realize he’d made her a custom, one-of-a-kind dress just for her. Kady couldn’t keep her hands off her waist while she wore it, so she knew she’d have to thank him at some point, no matter how miffed she still was at him.

“Yeah, as high-brow as he’s gotten this still doesn’t seem like… his crowd,” Penny had mumbled, noting in particular the vast age difference. Sebastian was about seven years older than Eliot, but even some of the women looked like they were older than their parents. “How many do you bet he’s actually met?”

“His fiancè is in politics,” Kady shrugged, about the time they overheard a security guard stop a white sedan in line to the entrance of the parking lot. They honestly couldn’t help staring, as the man was dressed nicely - but nowhere near nice enough for a wedding.

“Name?”

“Tic Pickwick, I’m not on that list,” he blabbered, pointing to the clipboard. “I need to speak to Eliot Waugh urgently.” The difference in emotion on their faces was almost comical, the guard didn’t even bat an eye in his response.

“Not today, you don’t. Officer?” the guard waved over a state trooper who strictly told him to move his vehicle, the man continuing to frown and stutter out excuses. Penny stared openly, even walking backwards as Kady dragged him away from the scene and towards their destination. 

“Reporter has balls, I’ll give him that,” Penny smirked, laughing with the ladies as they finally rounded the garden and out of sight, aiming for the elegant ceremony set up just beyond the trees.

-

Storm clouds loomed far out on the horizon, and Quentin stood on the porch of his house he no longer lived in, watching them with a hand over his eyes. The dark brown color even more so as the sun gave way to the approaching storm. He watched the build up, the way they lumbered forward, judging if they would be rolling his way just from the look and shadow of the thunderheads piled high in the sky. They were dark, purple and pulsing with silent lightning, and he decided after a few more minutes that luck was in his favor. It should come crashing in right over them in a few hours, so if he left right then he could set up a few of his metal lightning rods in the trees before it hit. He had time, at least a little of it. 

Besides, it wasn’t like he had any other plans, or anyone to spend them with. Practically the whole town was up at the Brakebills Estate. A small, petty part of him hoped it rained on the ceremony - but there was an old wives tale about how storms on your wedding day meant good luck and a long, happy marriage. Because of course it did. 

He was loading up the four wheeler when his dad pulled up, not an hour out from when the wedding ceremony was supposed to start. Quentin was not supposed to know that information, had purged it from his mind, and left his watch and cell phone in the car so he would stop checking the time every few minutes. Ted stepped out of his truck, dressed in his best suit, and didn’t pay any mind to the dust and mud on his dress shoes as he approached his son with his hands in his pockets. 

Quentin acknowledged him with a nod, a twitch of the lips that didn’t commit to any one emotion, and continued loading long, thick metal rods for attracting lightning. Along with his rock/tree climbing gear, and his tools into the four wheeler. He had dragged it behind his truck all the way from Louisville, where his new apartment landlord wasn’t happy about it occupying a parking space permanently. 

“You look nice,” he finally told his dad, hefting a bundle of metal building rods into the open back of the vehicle and tying them down. 

“There’s a wedding going on,” his dad said, not meaning to sound glib but - his default was dad jokes. No one was perfect.

“Think I remember something about that,” Q managed to answer without too much bite. “Must have lost my invitation. Have fun.”

“Long as the weather holds up,” Ted added, nodding towards the dark clouds, sparking with silent lightning in their depths. It had gotten decidedly closer in just the little amount of time Quentin spent prepping for his drive into the woods. That storm was moving fast, he’d have to get a move on. 

“Looks like it’ll be a big one,” Quentin said, appreciative that mother nature at least had his back. Ted was beside him a moment later, helping him stow his gear, and very obviously mulling something over. The very press of his lips appearing as if they were caging in words.

“Y’know, curly-Q, you’re my only son and I love you,” he started out, which was never a good beginning and Quentin wasn’t sure he wanted to hear this lecture. “But sometimes, you’re just a little too much like me - and not enough like your mother. There’s a lot of situations I wish you were a little more like her.” It was the first time in a long time his dad had ever said anything about Quentin’s mom, and it stopped Q in his tracks. Staring at his dad in disbelief.

“Dad - she left you, and me.” He shook his head, not able to understand in the slightest. It had been so long ago, and had really driven a hard wedge between what he considered his childhood and being forced to grow up. But the memories he did have of her, even the more recent ones where she still treated him like a child and not an adult, were not something he looked on in much fondness. “She was so… cold, mean to you, and spiteful. I’d rather take after you, if I had the choice.”

“No, you don’t, son,” Ted said sadly, hands back in his pockets but close enough to look his son dead in the eyes. “Because when the time came, I just let her leave. There probably wasn’t much I could have done to stop her, but I didn’t lift a damn finger. I accepted defeat before the battle was even over.”

Quentin fell silent, clenching his jaw tight. Staring at his dad in a way that bled betrayal, because this - his situation was not the same. The battle  _ was _ over.

“He made his decision.” There had been a moment, one single breath-stealing moment, when Q had thought Eliot would change his mind. A bright, scary, hopeful moment that had stopped his heart and had him wishing like a small child all over again. But the moment passed, as quick and silent as the wind, and left Quentin feeling like a fool - heartbroken all over again. When he should have known better. 

“For someone who’s been holding on so tight, for so long, I’m… sad to see you let it go so easily,” Ted told him, and he did sound sad. As sad as a disappointed father could get, which was a well far too deep to see the bottom of.

“Dad. Stop.”

“I’ve spent a lot of my life holding my tongue about things, Curly-Q. This is something I can’t do that with.” He didn’t go into detail, about how this new look on life after chemo and cancer had changed his outlook, on what was important and how he could be a better father now that he had more time to do so. But Quentin wasn’t stupid, he knew what his dad was getting at. He knew why his dad was there.

And it was so… exasperating. Quentin was  _ tired _ , he had tried so damn hard to hold on, to get Eliot to hold out just a little longer until he got everything he wanted together. To get it all perfect. But he’d taken too long, Eliot had taken a vastly different path, and now none of it mattered.

“I can’t control what Eliot does, or wants, or will do - anymore than I can control the weather,” Quentin said, that exasperation loud and clear when he spoke, gesturing to the fast approaching clouds darkening the skyline. “Or the ending of a book. I can go back to the beginning all I want, but it still ended. I just - refused to see it.” Even that childish habit, that he could never seem to break, felt useless and naive in the light of everything that had happened.

If Eliot had told him, or said  _ something _ that -

No, it didn’t matter. 

Eliot had spent weeks trying to get them to finally close the book, the final chapter of their lives. It didn’t matter he still made Quentin’s heart beat quicker, harder, yearning and feeling and  _ living _ more than he felt like he had in years. It didn’t matter that no matter if he was there or not, Eliot still spurred Quentin on - inspired him to do better, be better. Live up to his full potential. It didn’t matter that when he  _ was _ there, even when they were screaming at each other, or when he hated him to his core (short lived, always and forever), Q felt more whole. 

Now he was fractured into pieces, and Eliot was getting married. To another man.

“He made his choice, and it wasn’t me,” Q whispered, barely able to look at his dad, or the devastation left behind by his words. He bet it was reflected in his own face, and he was so tired of looking in the mirror. So without another word, he got into his four-wheeler and drove off. 

-

With a few more final hand sewn stitches, expertly placed to make the suit fit him like a glove, Margo deemed Eliot ready for his wedding ceremony. Some of her best work, if she did say so herself, and she rarely did menswear. It was a red so dark and dimensional it appeared black, a trick of the light and nothing more, with silver accents, classically cut and trim and tailored to every inch of Eliot’s long, lean frame. It looked damn good. His hair tamed for once in it’s life, and that artful stubble seen in all the bridal magazines (because it drove Sebastian crazy and he loved it). He looked amazing. Fit for the New York royalty he was marrying.

“You okay?” Margo asked, and her voice was low - her stare wary and knowing. She’d been with him every waking moment the past three days, he couldn’t hide a damn thing from her. It was obvious what, and  _ who _ , Eliot kept thinking about. She wished she had pried the whole story out of him while he’d been sloshed on Champagne the past 24 hours, so she would know if she was saving him from tripping up over a long-lost-ex, or if she was keeping him from something she shouldn’t. The more time went on, and the more Eliot seemed to fester in it, she was starting to assume the later. “It’s not like you to get cold feet.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Everything is perfect.” His gaze grew far away from him, despite facing the long mirror watching Margo perfect every thread of his suit with careful precision. Attempting to keep his mind clear without soaking it in brandy, because the deluge of thoughts pouring through his mind consisted mostly of things he did not need to be focusing on. Everything  _ was  _ perfect, a fairy tale wedding anyone would die for, but trepidation was still tied up tight in his chest. Barbed hooks snagged there painfully. 

Why did his whole torso ache like it was hollow?

There was a gentle knock at the door, and a beautiful blonde peered around the door as she opened it. “Excuse me, the mother of Groom #2 would like to request an audience.” Eliot turned to her, his breath still caught in his chest - but this time it was stolen by the woman who entered the dressing quarters..

“Alice, you look radiant.” She did, honestly, an emerald green silk gown that hugged her every voluptuous curve appeared very retro but also very new. Shining beneath the golden overhead lights. “Beautiful dress.”

“Thank you, custom made,” she smirked, blushing, taking his hand and spinning for him to show off his work. He’d gotten her measurements right, he was proud to say. 

Okay, okay: yes, it was his wedding and he shouldn’t have been putting in a bunch of secret work overtime. Or late into the night, if one was being picky about schedules. But he hadn’t seen any of his friends in seven years, and making them custom tailored designer dresses to wear - you know, wherever (his wedding) - had definitely helped with his anxiety. Some people stress bake, Eliot tended to stress sew. While stress drinking.

“And mom, wow.” She looked good as well,  _ very  _ good. Younger than he had imagined she would, again - the ladies at the opera would murder her for her complexion, in a dark navy dress that sparkled demurely like the nighttime sky. Beside him, Margo cleared her throat and gave a very darting look towards Alice.

“Oh, Alice, this is my mentor and best  _ New York _ friend, Margo Hanson,” he said, flourishing as he led the two together by the hand. Margo was already in her maroon gown she’d bought straight off the runway before his show had even begun months ago. Maroon silk charmeuse, embellished with thousands of dazzling, small gold and silver Swarovski crystals that had her every curve glimmering without being overpowering. If one didn’t know it was hand beaded, they would probably think it was apart of the fabric. It was a fucking  _ feat _ to embellish silk charmeuse, unheard of really, but Eliot liked to do things outside the box - especially when someone told him it was ‘impossible’. It was one of the best pieces in his show, Margo had good taste. She knew what she liked, and she never wasted a moment in trying to obtain it. He hoped he wasn’t feeding Alice to the lioness on this one. “Bambi, meet Alice Quinn, the OG BFF.”

“Nice to meet you,” Alice said politely, looking a little dazed and her eyes skittering. Not sure where to rest them without blushing too much. 

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine,” Margo all but purred - no, she did purr, because Eliot's mom took her turn to clear her throat when the moment stretched long and charged. “Be my escort?” Margo didn’t wait for an answer, making eyes as she slipped her arm over Alice’s and herded her out the door. Alice looked over her shoulder at Eliot as she was whisked away by possibly the most gorgeous woman she’d ever seen, and Eliot merely winked at her as she disappeared. A spark of warmth for them igniting for a moment, only to be snuffed out a second later in the full-body chill that had taken over him. Head to toe. 

It was getting worse.

His mom came up to him once they were alone, taking his hands and looking up into his face. There was no hiding at that point, he didn’t even know what expression he was making but it apparently wasn’t a good one. She melted at the sight - and not in the best of ways. “ _ Oh _ , baby-”

“I’m fine, Mom.” He just looked back to the mirror, his reflection now pressed up against her’s. “I’m just-”

He wasn’t even sure.

“Nervous, I know,” she said. “But it’ll be okay. You’re doing the right thing.”

It wasn’t until she said it like  _ that _ , so plainly and obscenely, that Eliot realized the cold numbness that had soaked him through wasn’t nerves - it was regret. Early onset.

“Am I?” he whispered, catching his mom’s attention. She had been picking at stray lint from his suit, to keep her hands busy. She was quiet for a moment longer, then seemed to make a decision. To speak about something she hadn’t planned on telling another soul. Eliot wouldn’t realize the depth of the moment until he was right in the middle of it.

“When I married your dad,” his eyes sharpened at her words, and awareness came back in a small wave over his skin, “I was an absolute fool for him. Head over heels in love.” Her smile was sad and distant and heartbroken all at once, matching Eliot’s expression save for her bittersweet smile. He could finally see a resemblance in their faces, looking in that mirror. “I could barely make it down the aisle, if your grandpa hadn’t been there holding me up. But I remember thinking to myself, standing up there taking our vows,  _ Priest Matthew, please hurry. Before he changes his mind about me _ .” She sighed, taking Eliot’s hand in both of hers, and the warmth of it was lost to the cold numbness in his fingertips. “Look where that got us.” There was nothing wistful or happy about those five words. 

She didn’t look at him through the mirror, like Eliot did, ever the coward when the time came to face the music; his mother looked straight up at his profile and didn’t even demand his direct attention. “I wouldn’t trade you boys for anything, Eliot, but the amount of hurt and years it left us with - that I can’t forgive myself for.”

“Mom,” Eliot finally turned to her, making sure she knew he meant what he said. “Dad wasn’t your fault.”

“No, but you were my responsibility. And I failed to protect you, to fight for you - or any of us, to see what was in front of me when you needed me most.” She wiped tears from her cheeks, trails that had slipped out and streaked through her make-up without so much as a warning. “Oh, look at me, I didn't mean to bring all of that up - and on your wedding day.” She laughed despite herself and it was as broken as it was self-demeaning. It sounded like the mom he grew up with, not the one he’d been learning about the past few months. 

“No, but I’m glad you did,” Eliot told her, quiet and looking down to where she still stood so tall and fragile beside him. “I love you, mom.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever told her that, and meant it. If he had ever meant it before he knew they were just words. 

“And I love you, my baby El,” she rested her head in the center of his chest and did her best to not wreck his suit while embracing him. She shook her head to dislodge them after a moment, and to also try and keep the tears at bay - Eliot had a feeling she would probably cry the whole ceremony - but then she looked up and kept her watery eyes locked on his own. To make sure he heard her loud and clear. Another trait he hadn’t know he’d inherited from her. “I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did. Being so blindsided by what you think you want, that you don’t see the forest for the trees.”

Eliot knew she meant Sebastian, and all he had to offer; the dream son-in-law. But, that’s not who his mind turned to at her words, quieting his breath and making the air feel too big for his chest. He didn’t see Sebastian’s warm smile, or kind eyes; but a set of dark, endless ones, and a small grin only ever meant for him. 

There were a lot of things Eliot wanted, had wanted for a very long time - for a vast number of years - but as much as some of them had changed, there were a few that remained the same. He had  _ always _ wanted to love something, as bright and beautiful as the spark he saw in a six-year-old boy's eyes as he read a story of a place far away. A place that could be home. 

Bright, and beautiful, and just for him.

“He can give you a life we never dreamed of. Happiness you deserve. And, he adores you.” 

Eliot nodded, found his lips turning up in an uncontrollably smitten way, as he remembered that  _ look _ \- like Eliot was the sun, which the moon could only ever hope to reach for. The hope, the endless amount of hope drawn into every line of that face; always looking to him. Reaching for him. 

“He does, doesn’t he,” Eliot whispered. 

And Eliot adored him, more than words could say.

He could feel his heart breaking all over again, just as the thunder began to roll deep and low over the castle walls.

-

The sky darkened over the gardens, casting the ceremony into shadow, but really that only made the candle-lit glow that much more romantic. The deep purple and grey clouds smattered across the sky, and spit small droplets onto the crowd below. Not enough to be noticed, but Sebastian did wipe one off his cheek just as the orchestral quartet started to play the wedding march and the viewers all rose from their seats. He’d barely even noticed the procession as it happened, his eyes kept drifting too much to the sky above.

But now his eyes were trained on the aisle.

Eliot had asked Daniel to walk him down the aisle, since they both knew their mother wouldn’t be able to handle it without bursting into tears. He’d readily accepted, pleased as fucking punch, and gracefully didn’t mention their own late father - or the man Eliot considered one, who he would never ask to do such a thing. He had invited him to the wedding, though, because he was too important to not at least extend the invitation. Eliot wondered if he was actually there, sitting in assigned seats. Martin had someone in charge of the replies mailed in, so Eliot didn’t really even know who was going to be there.

“I’m just glad I’m included in the ceremony this time,” Dan teased him, instead of mentioning any of the former queries bouncing around his little brother’s already rattled mind. It helped to draw him out of his head, at least a little bit, to share a quick smile with his brother as they waited in the eves before their walk. 

Eliot and Q had eloped the first time around, when gay marriage was still a new thing legally. They had decided the day it was passed in the state of Indiana that they would do it, despite them both being underage. They waited, patiently, secret engagement kept just between them and no one else - and as soon as they were both old enough to not need parental consent, they took one road trip to pick up the forms. Waited the allotted three days. Then returned and married at the court house in Indianapolis. Neither their friends or their family knew the truth for  _ weeks _ . 

This time, Eliot had done everything by the book. The most expensive book New York could buy. So he wasn’t sure why he wasn’t smiling as wide as Sebastian was at the wedding arch. Why each step felt heavier than the last, and why this damn aisle was so fucking long. It felt like it was never going to end, he’d never reach the arch and take Sebastian’s hand.

In the end, he only made it halfway down the aisle. 

“MR. WAUGH!” Someone shouted from afar, and every single head turned to see a short man racing around the corner garden, with two very large security guards on his tail. He almost made it to the aisle entrance when they full on tackled him to the ground like it was Sunday Night Football, half the crowd wincing at the assault. “MR. WAUGH,  _ PLEASE _ ! I NEED TO SPEAK TO YOU!”

Wait, he knew that voice.

“Pickwick?” Eliot asked, pulling a face. There was no way. He backtracked back up the aisle to make sure he wasn’t just seeing things. But sure enough - “Hey! Let him up!” The security detail did so without another hesitation, Martin had them well-trained, and helped the little man to his feet. Who then proceeded to frantically wave off their grasp demanding that they  _ get your hands off of me at once! _

“Eliot?” Sebastian’s voice drifted up from behind him, questioned and uncertain, coming up to where El and Daniel had stopped in the middle of the aisle. “Do you know this man?”

“He’s my lawyer,” Eliot answered, just as confused. That little weasel certainly did not get an invitation, so what was going on?

“You BLOCKED the office number, and I could  _ not _ get a hold of you!” Mr. Pickwick said in a flush of agitation, closing the gap between himself and his client - as well as putting as much space as he could between the security guards. “This whole town had you hidden away as I was a common maid out to steal the good silver.” he brushed himself off, bits of grass and white rose petals clinging to his suit jacket, and then brandished a  _ very _ familiar manila envelope.

Oh,  _ fuck _ no.

“ _ Tic _ ,” Eliot grit out as he came up on him and stopped the man in his tracks, hissing quietly, annoyed beyond reason. “ _ What _ are you doing here? He signed the papers.” He had hoped and prayed that he would never, ever see that damn document again. This was supposed to be  _ done _ , it was the whole damn reason he had blocked the office number. He had never wanted to see this man’s face again. What else could he have  _ possibly _ fucking forgotten?!

Tic Pickwick swallowed hard, and looked around at their captive audience. They had stopped smack dab in the middle of the close friends and family section. Eliot could see everyone watching and listening in closely out of his peripheral. You could hear a damn pin drop. 

So Tic leaned in carefully, and whispered as best he could to Eliot. 

“Yes, he did. You…  _ didn’t _ .”

Sebastian’s face dropped, and Eliot looked like Tic had just slapped him.

“ _ What _ ?”

Tic showed him the document in his shaking hands, the papers ripped out of the envelope in a rush, but right there next to the red tabs - where Eliot’s name was printed - the signature space was blank. “No, I - I swear I…” he flipped through them all, but he hadn’t set down one drop of ink. Eliot looked right at Tic, shocked beyond comprehension. “Are you telling me I’m still  _ married?! _ ”

A murmur swept through the crowd, loud and mortifying. Tic shrugged and gave Eliot one of those half-embarrassed (fucking infuriating) smiles. “Only if you want to be?” Eliot felt like the world had frozen over and he was slowly suffocating. 

“For God’s sake, Eliot,” Sebastian said behind him, eyes closed and looking like he wanted to be  _ anywhere _ else in that moment. “I thought you’d taken care of this?”

“I did! I - must have been in a hurry, I forgot.” He whirled on Pickwick, livid. “You have six other returned copies you couldn’t cut and paste one?!” Eliot seethed at him.

“Well, can you sign the bloody thing before we all get soaked to the bone?!” Martin demanded too loudly, growling and snapping. His friends were just as animated, but much more quiet about it. Alice and Margo, sitting next to one another rather closely, kept sharing looks that said a lot of commentary on the situation. It was easier to focus on that than the expressions on Julia’s face, or Kady’s, or  _ Josh _ who was not doing his best in hiding how much he pitied Eliot entirely in that moment. Penny slapped him upside the head and growled to stop staring, bless him.

“Does anyone have a pen?!” Eliot shouted, startling everyone into motion. Every person around them began to check purses and suit pockets, and Eliot sent a very rageful glare at Tic who had brought the document BUT NOT A PEN. (“For fuck’s sake,” Martin growled out, also glaring at his security detail and sending someone running into the reception hall because if anyone would have a damn pen it would be the waiting staff.)

“Son?” A voice said and Eliot looked over his shoulder to find Ted making his way down the row of seats, holding out a pen from the bar. Eliot couldn’t even swallow. Of course, it would be Ted. 

He’d come to his wedding, after all; Eliot had invited him. For Ted that was always enough.

As he handed Eliot the pen, standing close enough to see the real war of emotions in Eliot’s eyes - the ones he’d been trying to hide away all night, now threatening to break free like a fractured dam - the look on his face said Ted wanted to tell him something. That wasn’t an unknown look, Ted usually had something to say and not enough in him to say it, so Eliot was surprised when he did just that. Forthright and spoken to him and him alone. He leveled a true, honest look at Eliot Waugh and said in a quiet rumble.

“These kinds of things tend to happen for a reason, El.” 

Behind Ted, Eliot could see his friend’s faces all saying something similar. Penny, Josh, Julia, Kady, Alice, Margo, Marina who had slipped in unnoticed, a few of his head seamstress worker bees, all staring at him in expectation. Waiting for him to wake up and chose a damn path. Eliot felt suspended in the moment. Holding a pen. Not sure what to do.

Then Tic was there, shoving the forms in his hand, and Eliot was holding that same damn set of papers with the pen hovering over his printed name. Awaiting his signature. 

But he stopped. His fingers shook, his breath too hard to grasp.  _ What was he doing? _

He looked up to Sebastian, who tried to smile and failed spectacularly - another first - but he did come to his rescue. As always. Put a hand on Eliot’s arm, gently, in support. Warm and caring. Like he  _ always _ was, because that’s just who he was. That just conflicted Eliot all the more.

His pen still didn’t touch the paper.

The moments continued to pile one on top of the other, a terrible metaphorical car wreck, and he could hear too many voices in his ears. Both past and present. Too much advice, sage words and opinions and vaugeties that didn’t always mean Sebastian or him or  _ Quentin _ . But somehow it all started to compile, and added up in a messy sort of way, and the picture it created wasn’t the one he was standing in. 

This wasn’t what he wanted. 

This wasn’t  _ right _ .

Sebastian and Eliot looked up at each other, at the same time, and the other man could see it in his eyes. The tortured expression, the conflict and warfare between his head and his heart. The confusion and the pain and the realization; all of it. A resolve started to form in Sebastian’s own gaze, his mouth firming to a tight line; that British stiff upper lip Eliza always went on about, prepared for what was coming before he could even articulate it. Because he knew. He had to. It was all over Eliot’s face.

“Sebastian,” Eliot started, ignoring the whole crowd around him. This was just for them, and no one else. “I- I’m sorry… I can’t,” he whispered, looking back to the Bill of Divorcement, and letting the pen go slack in his hand. “I can’t.”

“Can’t?” Sebastian said to his shoes, nodding and still holding Eliot’s arm in support - for both of them. That really did make everything so much worse. “Can’t what? Marry me?” Sebastian clarified, quiet - but he didn’t need an real answer. “I knew something was wrong,” he murmured, so soft only Eliot heard him. He’d been acting strange for weeks, Eliot knew it, and Sebastian knew it, but again - just one more thing he refused to see for what it was.

“I can’t do it,” Eliot rasped out. “I can’t - no, I can’t marry you.” The crowd was blissfully quiet, and Eliot was grateful for that. He needed Sebastian to hear him. “I know I’ve kept a lot of things from you, but there’s one more that even I didn’t know about.” The words coming from somewhere deep in his chest, wet and ragged and so true it hurt to speak. “I gave my heart away to a boy, a very long time ago, every broken piece of it. And he fixed it for me, but - I never really got it back. It belongs to him. All of it.”

Something was drawn into Sebastian’s face, a dawning moment as Eliot spoke, a distance that he’d never seen before. Memories Eliot wasn’t privy to, but the recognition was astounding. Heart-stopping. “I know a little something about that,” Sebastian whispered back, just as breathless.

Eliot felt like sobbing, because the beautiful man still holding on to him was the last person in the world to deserve this. His eyes were burning and flooding and he really couldn’t stop it. Fuck it all, he swore he would never do this to anyone ever again and here he was. “I’m so sorry, Sebastian. I shouldn’t have let it get his far, I should have known when to stand and fight for - I don’t know what else to say-”

“You don’t have to,” Sebastian told him, a small turn of his lips masking another sentiment - something secretive and promising shining in his eyes - behind all the sadness. Something in Eliot’s words resonating deeply in him, even as they splintered apart.

“I don’t?” Eliot asked.

“No.” There was a finality to that single word, and Eliot was lost at sea again. But somehow, someway, they stood there holding onto each other and sharing watery glances. And it hurt a lot less than he had expected it to. 

“That’s it?” Martin’s voice practically screeched. “You’re just going to let him do this? Humiliate,  _ mortify _ you like this?!” Sebastian barely registered his brother’s rage as he looked back at Eliot’s stricken, tear-streaked, confused and  _ hopeful _ face. 

Eliot wasn’t sure how, but he also seemed to be looking through him to somewhere else - very far away. 

“Yeah,” he smiled, “I think I am.” 

He took Eliot’s hand as he said it, and Eliot’s heart was about to burst from his chest. He… wasn’t sure what happened, between one moment and the next, or what was going on inside Sebastian’s mind. But something about him seemed more - free. Decided. Eliot knew that look, knew what it meant when he had set his mind to something, but he was too raw and confused to be curious. Sebastian raised Eliot’s hand high enough to kiss the back of it, and mouthed  _ thank you _ where no one else could see.

A thank you meant for everything they had given each other for the past year, because it had been wonderful, and healing, and clarifying for him - and led them both to that very moment. That journey alone was worth the outcome.

“Excuse me,” and then he disappeared into the crowd of wedding guests, without any more say on the matter. Leaving everyone murmuring among themselves, and Eliot was pretty sure the tears he really couldn’t control were turning his eyes red. 

But he didn’t have time to worry about that. A vengeance ignited in the man at the front of the room, and  _ everyone _ could feel it.

“ _ You _ .” 

Martin Chatwin was a living dragon, breathing fire and brimstone, seething hatred as he stalked forward. “Never, in my  _ entire  _ life, have I known someone so manipulative. So deceitful. And I’m in  _ politics! _ ”

“I didn’t  _ plan _ this,” Eliot defended, standing his ground. “I was saving us from-”

“From WHAT. Nothing?!” Martin screamed, beyond enraged now. “A lifetime of luxury and wealth, comfortable and long and able to buy you as many new livers as your drunken lush heart desires?” He got so close to Eliot he was pointing his finger right in his face. “I will NOT let my brother be dumped at the altar by a psycho, glorified male escort, who  _ can’t make up his bloody mind about a DAMN THING _ .” ...did Martin just call him a whore? Eliot was fucking speechless. “You don’t deserve him, Eliot, but you WILL go after him and grovel if you have to,” Martin continued to seethe. Eliot’s mouth was open in shock, about to protest, but Martin cut him off. “NO! Don’t you  _ dare _ ! You go after him, you fucking bastard-”

“Hey now! Listen, he doesn’t have to do anything of the sort,” Eliot’s mom intervened. Stepping up to occupy the space Sebastian had just left, standing with her son in support. Fully taking the brunt of Martin’s wrath, without knowing what that meant. She looked so small in comparison to his towering inferno of wrath, but she also looked so grounded. A living pillar of fortitude. “And there’s no need for that language. Eliot said his piece, Sebastian said his, this is between them - and frankly,  _ none _ of your business.” 

“Oh, is it now?” Martin drawled, a cobra rearing back ready to strike. “Thank you for your input, but my brother  _ is _ my business. So why don’t you go back to your shit-infested farm and stress bake what you can before the bank repossesses your double-wide.”

There was a very audible gasp that swept through the crowd, no one believing their ears, but no one saw the glint in Martin’s eyes. No one except Eliot. How he was ready to go in for the kill, his tongue more barbed and sharp than even Eliot’s father’s had been. 

“Hey, Martin,” Eliot heard himself say, about the same time he equated the lethal look to his late father. Knowing exactly how it would play out for his mom. When the man whipped around to glare at him - Eliot shoved the divorce papers in his chest, then reared back to swing his fist dead center. Cracking the nose audibly, and sending Mayor Chatwin of New York City sprawling to the ground. 

“No one,” Eliot said, dead calm. “Talks to my mother like that. Not anymore.” His mom’s presence still at his side burned red hot and her shock was radiant. “Get out of my county.”

There was barely a delay before a cheer sounded from his friend’s place in the crowd, followed by much of the rest of the audience (who Martin himself had invited). Eliot turned away, cradling his hand and mouthing ‘ _ OW _ ’ to Daniel; he hadn’t expected a punch to hurt  _ him _ that much. Security pried Martin of the ground, blood dripping from his very broken nose, and Eliza was all but cackling in her seat. 

“ _ Eliot _ ,” his mother gasped, still in shock. 

“Sorry, mom,” Eliot told her, and the look they shared was a very personal one. “That was long overdue.” He didn’t elaborate on what, but by the softening of her features - he hoped she understood.

Above them, a crack of thunder ricocheted inside the clouds and the sky opened up, faster than anyone could blink. It poured buckets of rain on the crowd, sending the New Yorkers scattering like cockroaches. Someone grabbed his arm in the deluge, and Eliot was surprised to find Eliza there - leaning in to speak directly in his ear over the commotion.

“Don’t worry, Marty won’t be pressing charges. I’ll be taking care of him. You go get your man.” Eliot pulled back to her shit-eating grin, the woman absolutely LIVING for Martin finally getting punched out, and let her words sink in deep. 

“I’m still married,” he murmured in shock.

“Yes, yes you are,” Eliza laughed, grinning a mile wide. “Good luck, love.” And then she was gone. 

Only one thing left to do.

Eliot used Daniel’s shoulder as a push off to stand up on top of the very expensive chairs beside his wedding guests. “HEY!” he shouted loud into the rain. “If anyone here knew me before my balls dropped, or before I could pull off suede,” he motioned to Alice and Marina, “head to a bar called  _ Ted’s Place _ for an after-party reception. Take what you can,” he grinned feral to his friends, who understood automatically. “Through the double doors and down the left hallway, Alice knows the way!” Then he hopped down, both Alice and Julia snagging an arm to stop him in his tracks. 

“You aren’t coming with us?” Alice shouted at him from under an umbrella - because she was practical like that - and Margo pressed tightly against her side. Eyes alight from what she had just seen him do. 

“I’ll meet you there,” Eliot paused, rain streaming down his face as the reality of it all finally started to sink in - really sink in - and left the most euphoric warmth where the chill used to be. “I’m going to go find my husband.” 

Julia shrieked in delight and kissed his cheek as he propelled himself forward, and the rest of his friends also cheered and continued to make fools of themselves in the rain. 

“EL, KEYS!” Dan shouted at him, throwing the pick-up truck keys over the crowd. (Which Eliot caught, even more surprisingly). The cat-calls and cheers chased after him as he ran through the pouring rain for the parking lot. Soaked to the bone. But he wasn’t worried about that, clammoring into the truck and slamming it in reverse to peel out of the Brakebills Estate. None of it mattered, not the abandoned reception or the fleeing wedding guests or what any of them would say about him that night, because he knew what  _ really _ mattered. He knew where to go, where he was supposed to be.

He had to find Quentin. 

\--


	16. xv. Lightning Strikes

-

A deluge was pouring when Eliot pulled into their lot, the house by the bend in the river dark and quiet, but Quentin’s car was in the drive and Eliot had been right. He was already out in the storm. He could remember Quentin leaning in that night under the bleachers, confiding that he was ‘ _ always out in those storms _ ’, yearning to tell Eliot everything he’d done. All that he’d built, based on their milestones and memories. He turned the truck around, shifting gears like a pro and tearing through the thick mud in a suit that cost more than the truck he was driving. 

He made it halfway down the road back towards the Brakebills Estate, skirting the thick White Oak forest, when he turned off the main road into a random patch of trees. He hoped to God he could find what he was looking for in this rain. He’d be running blind for the most part, because the truck wasn’t going to make it any further through the brush, and of course Dan wouldn’t have an umbrella in the truck cab.

Barely remembering to turn the car off or shut the door, Eliot dove into the storm and jogged straight into the dense foliage of the woods, weaving between the trees and streams of water falling about them. The towering oaks dripped waterfalls of rain water down their long branches, creating a dark wonderland in the forest for Eliot to navigate through. It shouldn’t have surprised him, that somehow - after all the time that had passed - he still remembered the way. His feet taking him all the way into the heart of the forestry where a giant, scarred white oak tree was standing sentient - a remnant of their life long past. 

The very first one, at that.

Quentin was there. In the one place he was relatively sure wouldn’t be struck by lightning again, leaning against the trunk as he waited to see if any of the metal spiked trees would be struck and burnt through their core. But he couldn’t see very far through the sheets of rain. The deafening thunder, the flickers of lightning, a mind-numbing white noise that blocked out the world around him - so he didn’t see Eliot come into the clearing. 

A few feet away, Eliot slowed, dripping water in his soaked suit, and paused to stare. To be grateful he’d been right. To worry, to fret, but he let the adrenaline push him forward; no turning back, not ever again. His voice came out loud and strong over the storm, stronger than he’d ever expected it to.

“Hey Coldwater!” 

Quentin whipped his head around and was struck by the sight, his eyes wide and not sure he wasn’t hallucinating. Because Eliot was standing there, in a wet suit that stuck to him like a second skin, hair curling and dripping in his face, which was fighting a smile and looked at Q so… adoringly. Mesmerized. “You missed the show.”

“What-” Quentin was confused, distracted, still heartbroken and not entirely convinced he wasn’t just dreaming. Imagining the mirage in front of him. But Eliot was still there, no matter how many times he blinked or covertly pinched his thigh through his jeans. He was still  _ there _ , soaked to the bone and gorgeous as the day is long. Quentin swallowed hard, licking his lips and not able to think because - “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know, dancing with your husband about now?”

He managed to not sound bitter as he said it.

“Well, there’s no music but I could make it work,” Eliot said, trying not to smirk, or smile this… radiant grin threatening to shine brightly in the dark forest. It was right there, breaking through around the edges, gleaming in his eyes. Q just shook his head. 

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re still married,” Eliot told him, but he didn’t look angry. Or annoyed. Quentin wanted to say it was the rain, or his befuddled mind, but he swore Eliot looked - happy. 

“Tell me you’re joking,” Quentin bemoaned, exasperated. 

That time, Eliot did smile; and it was such a secretive, elated smile it brightened up his face no matter how small it was or how hard he tried to hold it back. “Afraid not.” He sounded anything but.

He was looking at Quentin now, in a way that burned right through him, and left him ice cold behind. Flashes of beloved warmth followed by the ice bucket of reality, taking turns trying to drown Quentin and then revive him enough to remind him that the man standing there wasn’t here for him. Wasn’t his. No matter what that look in his eyes said. Eliot didn’t know what he wanted. Not really.

No matter how much he wished he did.

“Why didn’t you find me in New York?” Eliot asked him over the rain, switching tracks with more grace than Q could ever hope to possess, a genuine need to know painting his features. A question that could answer a lot of lingering queries, close a lot of books and chapters that Quentin didn’t want to get into. It had been bad enough that Eliot knew he’d gone at all, but the fact he’d given up after only a day? 

“I needed to pull myself together first, make something I was proud to share with you,” he said, barely loud enough to be heard over the rain. He had to raise his voice to ensure Eliot understood, even though a large part of him didn’t want him to know. “To convince you to come back.” It was the first time he had said it out loud, let alone thought it concrete. He’d built a whole life for Eliot and him, that he could share, in hopes that Eliot would share his own world back with him. A hopeless dream that he never bothered to propose. He needed to make something of himself, first, convince  _ himself _ he was worthy.

“Well, you about done?” Eliot inquired, ticking his head to the side and staring at Q in mock seriousness. The implications perfectly clear, and Quentin wasn’t sure he could believe him. Could dare to  _ hope _ to believe him, no matter how much his heart was screaming at him that he  _ wanted _ to believe him. 

“You - you’re serious,” he said, when Eliot kept looking at him like he wanted a real answer. “You can’t - don’t do this to me, Eliot.” He pleaded, begged, felt his face go hot and his eyes start to sting. No, this wasn’t fair. “Don’t say something like that if you don’t mean it.”

“Do you think I’d be here if I didn’t mean it?” Eliot said back, as honest and truthful as he could. “I left my wedding, Q. I left Sebastian, halfway down the aisle. As soon as I found out that we were still married, I thought…  _ thank God, now’s my chance. _ ” Eliot’s smile was a tear in his face, sad and open, and so wild and vulnerable it was a mess to witness. But Quentin had always loved Eliot’s messes; the tragic compilation of feelings he could compose within the lines of his face. He missed deciphering them, staring at them, watching them move and change like the interior of a kaleidoscope.

“How?” Quentin heard himself whisper, he still didn’t understand how this could even be happening. 

“I didn’t sign the papers.”

Quentin blinked at him.

“I mailed them, after I saw you - that morning before Old Settler’s - but I didn’t sign them.” Eliot’s laugh was choked up by relief and hysterics and Quentin’s heart was stuck in his stomach.

“You forgot to sign them so you think it’s - what, a sign?” Quentin was in disbelief. This wasn’t like Eliot. “You don’t believe in destiny, or fate. You always said it was snakeoil bullshit.”

“Just like organized religion, yes I know,” Eliot prattled, waving off his own philosophy. “But when the universe lines up that many signs in a row, I’d have to be pretty dense not to get the message.” Eliot licked his lips, tasting rain water, and Quentin wasn’t sure when he’d started taking those careful steps - closer to where he was leaning against the tree - but he could see every bead of water tracing down his face and neck, every detail of Eliot’s expression, glistening in the damp from the storm. And it was wrecking his heart. “It wasn’t just that, Q, and you know that. You know how much I’ve thought about you, worried about you, wanted nothing more than to hear your voice or listen to you breathe - because I called you night and day for weeks after you walked away.”

“You’re talking about the rodeo.” His words were so far away from him Q wasn’t sure they had come from his own mouth.

“I guess I am a little dense,” Eliot said wistfully. “It took me too long to figure out what I always wanted, what I need, what I love - was right there - begging me to stop pulling away. To stop hiding. To fight for what I want.” 

“Eliot - I don’t think you know  _ what _ you want,” Quentin said, empty and despondent. “You keep thinking you can’t find the right decision until you make all the wrong ones but that’s not how you’re supposed to live your life.” 

“I know that now,” Eliot told him, stepping closer once again and Quentin tried to move back in tandem - to give himself space to breathe - but his back hit the tree. Their tree. And he smelled ash and damp earth and Eliot’s cologne. “Life is about choosing and fighting to keep what you love, with the person who makes you happy. It’s about learning and adapting and compromise, and making space in your life for that person to grow. Intertwine their life with yours.” He was standing right in front of Quentin now, dripping rainwater and staring so deeply into Quentin’s eyes he found himself drowning in them. “We’ve been best friends for years, Q, know each other backwards and forwards - and no matter how much time and space I put between us you still get me more than anyone else in the world.” 

Quentin wished above all else he wasn’t crying, not when they were standing so close he couldn’t even pretend to hide it, but the years ached between them and he could see Eliot’s eyes shining with more than just awareness. His voice trembled with it as he spoke, every word from a hundred speeches that he never got to say.

“You were the first boy I ever kissed, Quentin. I want you to be the last.” 

“Maybe we had our chance,” Quentin whispered, Eliot’s speech so powerful it rocked his bones, but he’d been broken and burned too many times the past few months. He’d survived the storm Eliot unleashed over and over, because he could never stay away. He would always keep coming back to hear the thunder of his heart, to feel the lightning spark between them, but he feared the rain. He feared drowning. “Maybe we weren’t meant for each other like we always wished we were.” Even as he said it, he didn’t believe it, his wavering quivered tone said he didn’t believe it. And by the flash of light in Eliot’s eyes, he didn’t believe it either. His mouth in danger of lifting to one side, like he was fond at how wrong Q could be - and Quentin wanted to slap him and kiss him all at the same time. “Why would you want to be married to me for anyway, Eliot?” 

He’d said it in exasperation, a final defeat, but Eliot’s expression softened to the point Quentin could feel those bright tears burning behind his eyes again. Blurring his view of the man looking at him like he held the world, and Q couldn’t remember the last time he’d been looked at like that. 

“Because I’ve never felt more myself than when I’m beside you, ever since we were small and I didn’t know how to be brave against the world,” Eliot said, so quiet they drifted even closer together in the storm. “Because we bring out the best and worst of each other, in all it’s beautiful agony, and you love me anyway.” Quentin could feel a sob caught in his throat, and wondered if the rain still dripping down Eliot’s face was masking tears. “Because I love you, too, and adore you more than anything in this world. I forgot what it felt like to try and live my life without you there, because I’m an absolute  _ idiot  _ and I want to spend my whole life making up for the time we lost.” He paused, his lips parting the same time Quentin's did on a heavy, shuddering exhale, and Eliot’s gaze flickered down to witness the motion. 

With another careful inch forward, his head bent down to speak the next part so deep and deliberate Quentin could feel it echo through his chest. His stare reflecting back on the years and years they’d spent this close to each other, to the first time the prospect of marriage had crossed their minds; young and not knowing it would encompass them so fully. A similar conversation, with the same profound implications.

“And, most importantly, so I can kiss you anytime I want to.” 

Quentin didn’t know if the sound that escaped him was a laugh or a sob, but Eliot breathed it in as he pulled Quentin to him, gathered him close and kissed him for all he was worth. Wrapped his arms around his middle, cradling the small of his back as Quentin arched up and pulled Eliot impossibly closer. He sunk deep into the embrace and kissed Eliot back with reckless abandon, his own arms thrown around Eliot’s neck to anchor him down, locked tight and never  _ ever _ wanting to let go. The giant charred oak at their backs was their only support in the storm thundering overhead. 

For all their words and pretty speeches, nothing beat the way they still fit so easily together, filling up the spaces left behind like they were made for each other. Quentin didn’t need to tell Eliot he forgave him, the way he kissed him told the other man everything in a language all their own. 

Time slipped through the cracks, lost in the back and forth motions, the contrasting cool of skin slick wet with rain water and the feverish movement of mouths hot and enticing. Their wet clothes stuck together, skin warm beneath in the chill of the summer night, and soon they were left shivering both from sensations and the damp. But they didn’t stop, not wanting to let up the rediscovery happening there. Breathless, panting, lips swollen red from the rain and the kiss, when a bright light shone on them - piercing through the darkness.

“WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?!” Kady suddenly appeared, shouting at them, backlit by red and blue lights flashing from the service road not far into the trees. “YOUR HONEYMOON INVOLVE PNEUMONIA?!” 

“Something wrong, Sheriff?” Eliot shouted back over the rain. Kady gave him a deadpan stare, in which he raised a single eyebrow at, not caring one bit that he looked like he’d just been dragged out of the river. So he carried on, “No? Good. As you were.” He dove back in for another kiss, tasting Quentin’s smile, all upturned lips and teeth and huffs of laughter. 

“Afraid I need to bring you two in.”

“What for!” Eliot practically whined, Quentin hiding his face in his chest to stifle his laughter. Damn it! He was a little  _ busy _ , if she couldn’t tell.

“I’d say reckless endangerment,” she chided, making both men look at her in disbelief, “But I also heard you left a VERY large open tab at Ted’s bar. Something about a reception?” She was smirking at them now, and Quentin was looking to Eliot with a raised eyebrow as well.

“Reception?”

“Well, we never got one, so - I figured I shouldn’t let this one go to waste. We already have everything,” Eliot grinned slyly, arms still around Quentin’s waist and half spinning them under the dripping branches of their tree. 

Quentin kissed him, hard, then said “Let’s go,” with a grin, snagging Eliot’s hand tightly and the two hurried up towards Kady - ducking against the assault of the storm. They almost made it to the Rush County jeep when Kady stopped them.

“Ah-ah-ah, not so fast. One requirement.” 

They looked at what was dangling from her finger, his mischievous grin just  _ begging _ for an argument, but Eliot bantered right back without missing a beat. 

“Fine, but we’re keeping them.” 

-

As instructed, all of their friends had… commandeered different parts of the reception on their way out the castle doors. Read: they stripped it bare. Working very well together, if they did say so themselves. (Margo did, cackling in laughter she mentioned something about robbing a bank when they were done.) 

The cake had ended up in the back of her rental SUV, sans the cake-toppers, a lot of wine and expensive champagne in Penny’s trunk, and a  _ bunch _ of food in both Alice and Josh’s cars. Julia stole a few decorations and flower arrangements, and rescued everyone’s wedding gifts (of the people they knew). Basically, they looted the place, and returned to Ted’s Place laughing like maniacs. As Ted unlocked all the doors and windows, and plugged in all the string lights used for warm summer nights. It was pouring cats and dogs outside, but it sure as hell set the mood for a romantic reception. 

They split into groups and got every bit set up, an intermingling of Eliot’s friend and associates from New York helping once they saw what was going on. Everything was in order in record time. Penny, Josh, and a few of Eliot’s workerbees piled all the furniture in corners, lining the walls with seats for the crowds to come, while Julia and Marina took up directing the placement of all the big decorations they’d taken out from under the castle’s nose. Meanwhile, Alice and Margo were racing about the bar making mischievous final touches - and flirting unabashedly but no one was paying too close attention. They replaced the cake toppers with some of the old sports trophies El and Margo had decorated that first night back in Indiana, poured an insane amount of drinks and spiked the punch Ted had tried to designate as non-alcoholic, then spent the remainder of the time writing scandalous and sentimental things on the specials board. 

“ _ Forever & Further _ , with an ampersand in the middle,” Alice told her, sitting on the bar and holding Margo’s waist as she knelt atop it to reach the giant chalkboard meant for drink specials. “Q might actually cry when he sees it.” 

“Ten bucks says Eliot’s mascara is running by the end of the night,” Margo teased, leaning back against the other woman probably a bit more than necessary - but she had taste-tested that punch one too many times. At Alice’s snort of laughter, Margo looked over her shoulder at her and held a finger to her lips in a silent pantomime. “Shh, he thinks no one knows his secret. You didn’t hear it from me.” 

“Not a word,” Alice promised, also leaning in far too close. 

“Lovebirds! Make room, we have people coming and Mama needs her champagne before it all gets swiped,” Marina scolded them, half climbing onto the bar herself to snag an entire bottle of the most expensive stuff she could find. Alice noticed Margo didn’t seem to mind them being crushed together to make space, so she slipped her arms around her middle more securely and didn’t say a word about it.

The last of the crowds did indeed pour in; a good fifty or sixty people including Eliot’s mom and Daniel, and Nate sticking out wearing jeans instead of a suit. He made it once he’d learned Eliot had ditched Sebastian at the altar and was drinking the night away with his friends; he always did like that Quentin kid. Principle Fogg, the last of Eliot’s old friends from his years at Parson’s, and the remaining few of his seamstresses from New York. Then, finally - with champagne flowing freely and the whole place smelling of expensive steak and sugary buttercream - Kady burst into the bar, shaking the rain from her mane of dark hair, and rapped her knuckles against the metal doors loudly.

“Folks if I can have your attention, please,” she declared, all authority, and quieted the crowd in an instant. “This reception is unplanned, without proper codes, and missing two very important things.” She looked at everyone accusingly before smirking very wide, “Luckily I brought them with me. May I introduce Misters Eliot and Quentin Coldwater-Waugh.” 

The bar erupted into a chorus of cat-calls, applause, and cheers as the two men came in, soaked and smiling and handcuffed together. Kady held up their linked wrists like she was announcing the winner of a prize fight, or just showing off her handiwork. Both worked. 

“That a wedding gift, El?” Margo teased, cradling her champagne glass and still hip-to-hip with Alice. 

“If they weren’t they are now,” Alice snickered, face warm from her own drink and not the coy stare she sent Margo’s way. “Kady might not want them back.”

Margo all but purred, “ _ Oh _ , I just might keep you, kitty cat.”

Eliot and Quentin were herded to the cleared away area that surrounded the (stolen) cake, the (stolen) buffet, the liquor lined along the bar in dozens of premade cups and glasses, and an open space just waiting to be occupied. 

“Well, Q, we finally get our reception,” Eliot said, still holding Quentin’s hands even though Kady had uncuffed them. Went as far as to tug him so close there was barely a few inches between them. “What first?” Quentin’s grin was embarrassed and small from all the attention, but he locked his eyes on Eliot’s - the thing that had always given him the courage Eliot claimed he breathed like air. 

“I think we have a dance to finish,” he smiled, and Eliot beamed back, already swaying from where his arms were locked around Quentin. From the ramshackle stage, the band from Old Settler’s had been called in (by a favor from Penny), and the lead singer was already set up by the mike with a pair of star-shaped glasses and soaking in the joyous energy of the room. Everyone hooting and hollering for a first dance. Not knowing he’d been singing the last time they danced as well.

“Any requests,” he asked.

Eliot and Quentin looked at each other, not sure what  _ they’re _ song really was. 

“We always did love Elton,” Quentin mentioned.

“Guess you’re in luck then,” the lead singer, Taron, laughed. 

Eliot tried to smirk, the expression softening to a smile he couldn’t wipe off his face, and turned to the band as Quentin tucked himself in close to Eliot’s chest. Not able to stop looking up at him, or let go of his hand, or keep himself from touching El anywhere he could. Luckily for Q, first dances allowed a lot of touching. Eliot pressed his hand to Quentin’s back to keep them as close as possible, and finally schooled a smirk as he told the lead singer, “Make it a slow one.” 

Most bands would probably have chosen  _ Your Song _ ,  _ Can You Feel The Love Tonight,  _ or  _ Daniel _ (God forbid, Eliot would murder someone), but that man up on the stage just beamed right back - cheeky fuck - and whispered something to his keyboardist. Who laughed, and started a very slow - freestyle intro - to none of those choices. 

_ “You could never know what it’s like, _ _  
_ _ You blood like winter freezes just like ice, _ _  
_ _ And there’s a cold, lonely light that shines from you, _ __  
_ You’ll wind up like the wreck you hide, _ _  
_ __ Behind that mask you use-”

Eliot all but glared at the band, Quentin dissolving into laughter at their epicly slow rendition, and directed Eliot’s attention right back where it belonged. One hand on his face and pulling him down to meet him for a searing kiss that the man immediately fell into as deeply as he could. The applause surrounding them drowned out the rest of the cover band’s slow intro, switching it straight back to the tempo that had people pulling partners onto the dancefloor beside the not-so-newlywed couple. The two barely noticed, still kissing like no one was watching, as the bar erupted into a revelry of music and laughter and love; one that lasted long into the hours of the night.

And Eliot knew - without a shadow of a doubt - that this was right where he belonged. New York, Indiana, it didn’t matter. His home wasn’t a place, it was a person; and a community of people that transcended state lines and time zones. The ones that cared for him, through thick and thin, ups and downs, at his best and at his worst. 

No matter where he went, or what the world threw at him, he now knew that his  _ home _ would always be there waiting for him - and he was never going to let it go, again.

\--


	17. Epilogue

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_ Five years, and nine months later _

-

Eliot stumbled through the door of his home at 4:30 in the morning. Five o’clock shadow doubled over on his cheeks, and one of his best suit/vest combinations hanging from his frame, lightly rumbled from hours upon hours of wear. Yet, still somehow insanely flattering; it was all black, after all, with the most outrageous golden accents he could add without it being overwhelming. The Met Gala theme was King Midas this year, and as he was going for work and not attending (yet, someday he  _ swore _ ) he’d decided that just the accents would be tasteful and flattering over the black on black designer clothes. A good choice, as he was now  _ also _ covered in gold dust from the event, and had some smeared on his face from various clients/friends after the night ended. It had been a wonderful time, even working the sidelines and keeping track of a dozen different gowns as they trapezed up and down the Met’s extravagant steps. But God, he had wished he wasn’t enjoying it alone.

Their Brooklyn brownstone wasn’t completely dark when he arrived that morning. He could see strategic lights turned on, faint yellow glows leading him inside like a moth to the flame and all the way up the stairs to their bedroom. Still in a daze after working a full 24 hour day. Such was the life of red carpet events.

There was even a light left on in their room. Not glaring, but toned down to a lower percentage - Q had a fascination with the googlehome lights, and being able to control the amount of light they used from any bulb in the house. Eliot found his husband buried there under their thick, cloud like comforter; snoring softly and curled up half onto Eliot’s side as if searching for him in his sleep. El leaned against the doorframe, resting a moment and smiling at the sight. He still couldn’t get over coming home from the bustling of the city to Quentin warm and snug and waiting for him. It floored him more than he cared to admit, even after all these years.

He failed in getting his shoes off, or staying quiet to let his husband sleep, because he near fell to the floor and knocked a chair against the wall with a bang. Making Quentin sit up in bed and rub sleep from his eyes, all mussed and blurry and soft from sleep, and Eliot wanted nothing more than to slip into bed and curl up against him. If he could just get his glitter infested clothes off without breaking anything.

“You’re home,” Q stated, even his words sleep-addled. 

“I know, I’m sorry it’s late,” Eliot bemoaned, struggling to his feet with both his shoes still on. Damn it. “It would have been two hours ago if the governor’s wife hadn’t spilled a vodka cranberry all over her white charmeuse gown. That woman puts  _ me _ to shame.” Quentin chuckled quietly, crawling out from under the covers and to the end of their bed. It would have been sexy if he’d done it on purpose, or if Eliot hadn’t been so exhausted - no scratch that, it was still sexy.

“Come here,” Quentin beckoned, “Sit down before you fall down.” He helped Eliot shed his suit jacket and got him to sit on the bed. Golden dust caking the soles of his shoes so he left his feet on the floor. He probably tracked footprints all the way up the stairs. Q laughed at the amount of golden powder everywhere, including the heavy smears on his face. “I think you’ve found your color.”

“You wouldn’t know complementary palettes if it bit you in the ass,” Eliot said back warmly, accepting the soft kiss Quentin planted on him to shut him up. A little playful growl had been there too, but Eliot didn’t react to it fast enough. He was so tired.

“I was worried you’d be too high strung from the gala to sleep,” Quentin told him, smoothly tugging his tie from the collar of his shirt as Eliot finally succeeded in kicking off one of his shoes. “I had… a few ideas to help you, but I see that won’t be a problem.” He sounded almost disappointed, for near five in the morning.

“No, no, no don’t say that, I can stay awake,” Eliot insisted, scooching closer to reach over and tilt Q’s chin back his direction. “I always have time for you. But-” he looked to their clock and winced. “Won’t Teddy be up in like an hour or so? What if hears something and gets up  _ earlier _ , God he’d never go back to sleep-” Quentin kissed him again as his ramblings turned to mutterings, this time the press of lips leaving a slow burn tingling sensation in its wake.

“I had Margo and Alice take him,” Quentin said with a coy smile. Eliot felt it against his lips as Quentin kissed him one, twice, and three times - pushing him back onto their bed and shifting to straddle where Eliot lay. One booted foot still hanging off the bed.

“I was wondering where they were. I called Margo a lazy ho all night long for ditching the gala - and sending her underlings to run things.” It was really a feat of wonders that Eliot was able to string those words together, what with Quentin pressed so close on top of him. Q chuckled at his attempt, though, as his soft, warm kisses trailed over Eliot’s face; across the rough stubble of his cheeks and down to his jawline. Not as sharp as years ago, but Quentin nibbled on it like it was just as deliciously enticing as it ever was. 

“Might want to take that back,” he mentioned.

“I always do.” Eliot hummed, stretched his head back against the bed and let Quentin take care of him. It was turning out to be such a  _ lovely  _ experience. Q unbuttoned his shirt slowly, peeling off his clothes, the gold dust now clinging to his own face and hands, glimmering on his worn in henley shirt as he stripped Eliot and loved on him. His husband's bone-weary exhaustion seemed to urge him to be bolder, and El - was delighted by it all, how much he was enjoying Quentin easing all the aches and stress from the day from every muscle in his body. All the while lighting up the nerve-endings, reawakening each limb as he traveled over his shoulders and chest. His arms and his hands, the inside of his wrist. Kissed his fingertips. Nuzzled his collarbone and the dark hair in the center of his chest. All the way down his soft middle to his hip bones and trim hem of his pants. He slipped the belt from the loops before Eliot even realized Q had unclasped it.

“You’ve been thinking about this all night, haven’t you?” Eliot teased, lifting his hips so Quentin could slide the slacks from his long legs. 

“Well, someone was supposed to be home before midnight. I didn’t expect to fall asleep waiting for you.” He crawled back up Eliot’s body to kiss him again, tugging his own shirt over his head so his already sleep-mussed hair tousled. It was shorter than it had been when he and Eliot left Indiana years ago, but was still long enough to brush back nervously behind his ears when he needed. Or fall into his eyes when he was too rough with it. When he  _ and  _ Eliot were too rough with it. “Not as sexy when you find me in dreamland in a sleep shirt and sweatpants.”

“Hey, you are  _ very _ sexy in your sleep shirt and sweatpants,” Eliot told him, speaking from deep in his chest with all the air of a growl. “I love you all cuddled up, happy and warm in our bed.” He ran his hands through Q’s messed up hair and held the back of his neck warmly as they looked at each other. Like they were seventeen again and talking about running away to get married. Like it was four years ago and they were talking about starting a family. His fingers of his other hand traced up Quentin’s side and over his back, marveling at how soft his skin got after a few hours of sleep, and fell into a deep kiss that sent his world spiraling. Quentin’s roaming hands threading through Eliot’s too long curls, rocking him back to the bedspread and kissing him deep and slow.

Eliot’s long arms were around him now, anchoring him down as they made out like teenagers - still too quiet, from years of practice, but with a languidness that threatened to tip into frenzied. Dip and delve, stubble burn and hot exhales, but just like always they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

“How much energy you think you have left?” Quentin asked breathlessly, openly, that only came from familiarity. Domesticality didn’t mean blandness, they had learned, it meant comfort; it meant being able to say what you wanted the first time without having to tip-toe around it, and that kind of freedom was as intoxicating as it was delightful. 

“Mmm, I think I like you taking care of me tonight,” Eliot told him, slurring as if drunk on the sensations alone, rocking his hips up into Quentin’s and tasting the gasp it made. Licking into his mouth, swallowing the groan he emitted, and scraping his nails over the long planes of his back.

They slipped into a time-honed dance, muscle-memory taking over the logistics as they soaked up the new nuances. The louder moans, the heavier touches and less explored pressure points. The ones that elicited a response so guttural and archaic it couldn’t be suppressed. There was a dangerous freedom in having the house to themselves, a testing of boundaries they knew and worshiped every line of, a routine just asking to be shaken to pieces. And Eliot just  _ loved _ being an instrument of chaos.

When Quentin made to have him turn over, Eliot didn’t budge. Wouldn’t let up prying Quentin’s mouth open, with lips and teeth and tongue and fingers once or twice. Q went crazy when he did that, long digits tracing the tip of his tongue, keeping his mouth open while Eliot decided what to do with him. He didn’t think he could look away from Quentin’s face tonight for anything. 

And just like that, Q understood, and slid down Eliot’s body to lick at his chest and ribs, open mouthed kisses until his wide hands were slipping down his sides like brands and Eliot’s hips were rocking up in search of friction. Rising to meet Quentin’s hands, splayed as they covered hip bones and traced his pelvis through his briefs. Eliot was breathless and Quentin was salivating. Then he pulled the tight black fabric down Eliot’s thighs, and in the same motion hooked Eliot’s long legs over his shoulders. Eliot was  _ very _ tall, Quentin, was  _ not _ ; but it just made it that much easier for the man to get up and under him and pick him apart piece by piece.

He had Eliot open and aching in a matter of minutes, expert motions that knew every inch of Eliot inside and out; they had gotten  _ very _ good at getting ready in a short amount of time. They didn’t always have the most time to give when it came to loving on each other this intimately. Quentin could have dragged it out, opened him up slow just to see if he could make the other man beg, but Eliot was halfway there already; it was too early, after too long a day, and all he wanted to do was make his husband feel so good he could barely remember his name.

Eliot’s long torso arched so beautifully as Q slipped into him, kissing the inside of his knee and giving the other man the time to adjust, waiting for the tell-tale rocking where Eliot used his height to brace himself against Q’s shoulders and started moving on his own. Even underneath the other man, Eliot couldn’t help but run the show. This part they knew well, where they began to move together, enjoying bringing the pace to different intervals and then dragging it back down to something slow and languid. Quentin would kiss whatever skin he could reach, Eliot would press his fingertips and hot palms into wherever he could grab, shifting their position bit by bit as they continued to move. One leg slipping down to wrap about Quentin’s back, just to change the angle, to let Quentin drive deeper as they chased their orgasm all over the spectrum. They could never drag it out this long, hadn’t in what felt like forever, and it was fun. Exhausting, but fun, and then Quentin was making sounds in the back of his throat that Eliot wanted to taste. Realized they had sunk so deep into each other that he was able to reach up and do just that, prying Quentin's mouth open with his lips and tongue in just the way he loved. 

The last go-round, the one for all the poker chips, was when Eliot would tell Quentin to  _ let go _ \- to give into that instinctual rhythm that had him driving forward and not letting up. Thrusting like a piston and it would chase the breath from Eliot’s lungs, have him tripping that precarious edge just as much. Filthy words of encouragement dripping from his lips until they broke that barrier, fell into oblivion - Eliot’s own hand around his dick and bringing himself there with Quentin buried deep, kissing the insides of his thighs with hot, open mouthed pants. So bent and tangled together they couldn’t even tell where one began and the other ended. Two sides of the same coin.

Then Quentin kissed him back down to Earth, wiped them clean, and wrapped himself around Eliot in their bed - not entirely sure when either fell asleep. 

-

When they woke up, it was to Quentin’s phone chiming, and Eliot refused to open his eyes. It was too early, he could feel it in his bones, along with the most pleasant ache - and if he had the energy to do so, he would drag Quentin back to his side and return the favor for the rest of the morning. While they had the chance. God, they needed a holiday. 

“They’ll be here in half an hour,” Q told him, laughing at the groan and the warm, sleepy kisses pressed against his spine. “Margo expects coffee.”

“Tell her to go pick some up then,” Eliot mumbled into his back. “Gives us another 20,” pressing another slow, lingering kiss a little lower, hands curling around Quentin’s naked hip, “25 minutes.” Quentin pulled him back up the bed, and rolled over - wrecking Eliot’s good time - and kissed the pout from his lips. 

“How about a shower instead?”

“With you?” Eliot proposed, still purring, and at Quentin’s half-embarrassed grin, chased the man butt-ass naked into their bathroom. He planned on making every second of those 30 minutes count. 

-

Downstairs in their bright kitchen, freshly showered and in weekend lounge clothes (because Eliot was NOT lifting one finger today, no sir) he scrolled through his phone and flipped through his appointment book to mark down the last few work-related things before Teddy got there and took up the rest of their day. If he could convince the almost 4-year-old to stay with him in a blanket fort with a Disney+ marathon he would be winning on all fronts that weekend.

Quentin brought him coffee where he was working, and his reading glasses because fuck contact lenses after last night. Brushed his unruly curls out of his face so he could kiss him one more time. For good measure. Kisses were never lacking in their household. 

They had a blessed five minutes (maybe) before their front doors burst open. Margo had a key. Teddy came running in yelling their names, almost as loudly as Margo.

“We’re here! I smell coffee!” she called, wearing a comfortably chic cream wrap top and black/white striped shorts. Teddy’s overnight bag over her shoulder, and Alice barely a step behind - they’re hands linked for a lingering moment in the foyer. 

“As requested,” Quentin teased, handing her  _ her _ designated mug and accepting a kiss on the cheek before going up to Alice and giving her a warm hug. Probably covertly thanking her for helping with Teddy the night before. He thought he was so slick, Eliot just smirked behind his mug and shook his head.

“Congrats by the way, how did last night go?” Margo said as she approached.

“I still have gold dust in my hair, and I didn’t make it home until almost five.”

“AM? Jesus, you need more interns,” she scolded. She had something under her arm, and Eliot reached for it when she sat beside him on the window bench seat. She wiped some gold flakes from his face before pressing a kiss there; he hadn’t done much ‘washing’ in the shower, it seemed. She also swatted his hand away from the folded parcel. “Ah, ah, not yet, that’s my surprise. Scoot your fat ass over.” 

“No jokes about my fat ass. Do you know how many times my picture was taken yesterday?” It wasn’t  _ fat _ , by anyone’s standards really, but he had filled out a little when he and Q had been holed up raising a toddler. Stress food was sometimes your only friend.

“ _ Stay off _ Twitter, you masochist, and look at this instead.” She opened up folded papers to reveal that morning’s edition of The Times, and flipped to the infamous page six, spreading it out on the kitchen table and pointed to a black and white photo of someone… very familiar.

It was Sebastian, smiling wide and happy and ducking his head down away from the camera - right against a face Eliot did not know. But they looked happy, too; deliriously so. There was a comfortable air between them that shown even through the photograph. 

_ Secretary Rupert Chatwin and Lance Morrison-McAlister engaged to marry next month. School boy friends to high school sweethearts, it’s a storybook ending fit for New York royalty. Mayor Martin Chatwin says he couldn’t be happier to hear the news. Both Governor McAlister and the Morrison family declined to comment on the matter. _

“I always thought he was dead,” Margo said beside him, and Eliot had always thought so too. The few times he’d heard the name  _ Lance _ slip when he’d been with Sebastian, it had obviously been a topic so taboo even Sebastian hadn’t wanted to confide in Eliot about it so soon. But from the looks on their faces, Lance was no longer lost to him. Eliot found himself smiling, soft and easy, in a way that he couldn’t tamper down. Not even at Margo’s raised eyebrow. Her own mouth quirked up in a half grin.

“Good for them.” It was such a terrible phrase, but he actually said it like he meant it. If anyone deserved to get a happy ever after - it was Sebastian.

“DAD! LOOK WHAT AUNTIE MARGO GOT ME!” Before he could blink his son was clambering over both Margo and himself to get to Eliot’s lap, and held a model plane under his nose. It looked like a fighter jet. 

“Really?” he said to Margo, who just bit her lip as Alice came up and slipped into the small space beside her. Cuddling up to her side. 

Alice had moved to New York not too long after Quentin had; her mom finally having a firm handle on herself and the mental hurdles she had hit along the way. She grasped them now with an alarming amount of strength and finesse (with only a few minor trips) and then - surprisingly - found her footing by Alice’s shoes in her old job: keeping Professor Mayakovsky occupied at the Brakebills Estate. She kept that man in line better than Alice ever did. Meanwhile, Alice got out of Carthage, Indiana - and right back into her unfinished undergrad degree path. Now, she was closing in on a doctorate at an alarming speed, as well as picking up little side majors like they were stray animals in need of a home. 

She had also moved in with Margo after only a few months living in the city. Alice had planned on getting her own place for a while, honestly, but the two had been long-distance dating since Q and Eliot’s belated reception, and once they were in stone-throwing distance of each other there was really nothing keeping them from spending the night in the same bed. Any night they wanted to. Which meant basically every night. Margo immensely enjoyed spoiling Alice rotten, as well as cheering and encouraging her little study bunny on in whatever she decided to do with her life (which apparently was to learn everything there ever was to know about in the world, the universe, all of it) and Eliot loved that for them. 

“Ted collects them, you know,” Alice pointed out, grinning as if innocent to any evil plot, and Eliot narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “He’ll love to see his grandson is just as enthusiastic.” 

“You’re both diabolical.” 

“What’s diabolical?” Teddy asked, still holding the plane up. 

“A grown up word,” Eliot teased. Not needing another conversation about why Auntie Alice and Auntie Margo were ‘trouble’ together, or why his dad said they alone would turn his hair gray. Teddy pouted at his explanation, so Eliot tickled him to get that smile back on his face. Kids are easy like that. “That’s really cool, buddy.” 

“Can we take it to the park!?”

Eliot bit back a groan, he did not want to go to ‘The Park’. There’s only one ‘Park’ that deserved those uppercase letters. 

“Oh, Teddy, your dad is really tired after working last night-” Q tried to reason with him, but was cut off.

“PLEASE DAD!” Teddy asked, standing up on the seat so he could hug Eliot around his neck and give him those pleading eyes. Kids are also way smarter than most give them credit for. So much for the pillow fort idea. He held his ground for as long as he could until-

“Fine,” he sighed, his son exclaiming in happiness. “- _ but _ I have to get dressed first.” Now it was Teddy’s turn to groan, because Eliot took forever to get dressed. “Tough, kid, now come on you’re helping me.” 

“NOOOOO-” he carried the toddler under his arm, dangling him near his second father to kiss good-morning, but Q didn’t bother to save him as Eliot carried him up the stairs and tossed him onto the cloud comforter. Kids are also easy in that you can always make them happy by picking them up and throwing them into something soft. Eliot had found he liked parenthood a lot more than he ever gave it credit for. Even if it dragged him out of the house after the Met Gala.

-

They left their brownstone nearly an hour later, and saw Margo and Alice off as they did, who went the opposite direction and took a towncar back to her penthouse apartment Uptown. Eliot and Quentin had settled in Brooklyn, after spending weeks exploring the city and getting Q used to the culture shock. Eliot took him to every nook and cranny of the city, every burrough and tourist trap and all the things in between. There’s a million things to do on a concrete island, and Eliot was looking forward to showing him each and every one.

But Quentin had fallen in  _ love _ with Brooklyn. The record shops, the hidden corner bookstores, the blend of hipsters and elegant brownstones fit for scholars and families. They had found a gorgeous one, two stories with curved half-moon windows and a small fenced in garden at the back. Very small, by MidWest standards, but to have a patch of grass all their own was wonderful and a small piece of home. Quentin didn’t get homesick for much, except his dad and the few friends that hadn’t ended up following them to the East Coast, but the home they had built for each other there nestled behind the trim black iron fencing was beautiful and perfect and tailored just for them. Because they had molded it that way, learned to fit into it and made it their own. Quentin spent hours in those half-moon windows, bay bench seats lining them, reading all year round: watching snow, falling leaves, or gentle rains. And now, with Teddy old enough to sit still longer than 5 minutes, he read to Teddy in those same spots. His fingers itching to open those  _ Fillory & Further _ books, and share that with their son as well.

Quentin was such a good dad, and as scared as Eliot was to contribute in that department after what he was raised with - he was surprised to find that he wasn’t too bad at it himself. He didn’t know what he was doing half the time, but it appeared that neither did most other parents. Teddy was a good, loving kid, smart as a tack and always wanting to go out and see more of the world. New York was good for that, exploring, seeing something new around every corner. Quentin had discovered that he liked it, as well, thrived on all the quiet, beautiful corners of the city. And Eliot loved being there to see them experience it. 

In fact, there was really only one thing he hadn’t gotten to convince Quentin to try - and it was scary by anyone’s standards - but after the Met Gala the night before, he realized that it was just another part of his life that he… really wanted Quentin to be a part of. He just had to find the right time to bring it up.

It seemed the right time was that afternoon, just past the Alice in Wonderland statues in the middle of the winding paths of Central Park, with their son running up and down the concrete walkways pretending to make that little model plane fly. Because as nervous as Quentin looked, biting his lip and eyes darting, he’d agreed. 

-

In the middle of August, Eliot finally accepted an invitation to a charity event that Margo had been trying to get him and Quentin to go to since the married couple moved in together in the city. Eliot had been before, as Margo’s plus one, but now she had Alice and she still wanted Eliot there (and Q, she adored Q, they nerded out together about  _ Fillory & Further _ and it made Eliot so soft). She had  _ bent over backwards _ to get him an invite, but after Teddy was born they just couldn’t justify it. Plus, big grand events were not Quentin’s thing. 

However, with Eliot’s steadily rising status, it was becoming harder to not be seen at these events. Especially with Quentin’s name being brought up more and more in societal social circles, and the general public. His distillery was flourishing back in Indiana, and after a few years and bourbon awards he was finally able to justify investors for a flagship bar/restaurant all the way up in New York City. It showcased Thunderhead Reserve Bourbon and Whiskeys, as well the thriving businesses and chefs he’d given a start to at the distillery, and it was now a very popular spot. Enough to be noticed, in a way that one was also noticed when they were  _ absent _ . Just as Eliot was, with his exponentially successful fashion house label. 

So, that day after the Met Gala, Eliot had asked Quentin if he would go with him to this event. They had lucked out, getting a second chance at it this year, after the Academy Awards had been delayed. 

Quentin had said yes, which was how they ended up in the back of a limousine in West Hollywood, wearing custom suits that Eliot had sewn himself. Q fidgeted the whole way there, tugging at his tie and fiddling with his cufflinks, until Eliot tangled his fingers with his own and squeezed his hand tightly. Trapping them between them. “I was nervous before every one of these, the first couple years I did this.” 

“You aren’t anymore?” Quentin questioned in disbelief, and Eliot just smiled softly at him. 

“It helps that you’re soaking up every ounce of anxiety within 10 square blocks.” Quentin just huffed out an exhale that sounded far too shaky, and Eliot turned his chin back to make him look at Eliot’s face instead of out the windows. “You’re going to do fine.” 

“I look ridiculous.” 

“You look stunning,” and Eliot kissed him, slow enough that it helped Quentin calm down. Take a few deep breaths spread over a smattering of seconds. 

“We can leave whenever we want. Show our face, shake the legend’s hand, wave at Margo as we sneak out the side door,” Eliot assured him. 

“El, we’re not going to  _ sneak out _ of Elton John’s Oscar Party.” 

“It’s an AIDS foundation Academy Award Charity dinner, and we so can. Margo once stole someone’s car from the valet’s while we were here, and I had to drive it because it was a stick shift. I’ve told you this story, right?” 

“That’s… not the same thing,” Quentin pointed out, eyebrows furrowed in confusion 

“I know, I’m just keeping you from looking around you.” The windows were tinted, but he could make out the flashbulbs going off not far ahead of them. They were coming up soon. 

Quentin wasn’t breathing right, and Eliot was kissing his knuckles to keep him calm, making Quentin just huff out in frustration. “Eliot, wh- why would you want me here? When all I can do is-” Eliot shushed him, kissed him, looked deep in his eyes and then kissed him again for good measure.

“There is no one else in this world I would rather be here with. You - you’re perfect to me, Q, and you always will be. You were the first person who taught me to be brave, and everything I ever learned about courage I learned from watching you.” At Quentin’s dumbstruck expression, Eliot just smiled as bright as the sun. “I love you so much, Q.”

“I love you, too,” Quentin murmured, smiling back, a little wobbly but real and true. 

“You ready?” Eliot asked, because they’d been stopped for a few minutes, but he wouldn’t open the door until Quentin steeled his resolve, grasped Eliot’s hand as tight as he could, and nodded to his husband. With one hand on the door handle, Eliot looked to the red carpet entrance and took a moment for himself as well. One more step, one more moment, one more milestone in their life. Eliot and Quentin, just as they were always meant to be.

He found himself smiling, once more. “Here we go.” 

\--

_ The End. _

**Author's Note:**

> The immense amount of thanks and acknowledgements and disclaimers is insane, but I'll start with the thanks.
> 
> To my wonderful partner, artist, and amazing friend Olishka: this fic would NOT have happened without you. We didn't know how long and crazy a story we were making, the world-building alone was vast and a journey I wouldn't have wanted to take with anyone else. We didn't know each other when this began, but I honestly can't imagine this vision without you. You helped build and shape this just as much as I did, and you were really the most supportive friend back in the spring and I can never thank you enough for that. Between the difference in time zones, my two small children, and my husband being deployed - all during a pandemic - the odds were certainly stacked against us for ever finishing this project. But we did it. We really fucking did it. And it's beautiful and wonderful and everything I could have ever hoped for. We had the best time, working diligently almost every single night, and I'm so happy to call you my friend and partner in all of this. Thank you for everything. I love you to pieces.
> 
> More acknowledgements and thanks go to my betas. Marooncamero, for even _agreeing_ to be my beta with how long it ended up being. You don't even go here, but you accepted my characters and dished out fashion advice like no one's business. So thank you for all you were able to accomplish (including my whining). As well as Stara, who is a grammar master and my alternate spell-checker. 
> 
> Thank you to the mods, Maii, for putting this whole big bang project together. I've never done a big bang before, I know I skirted the rules by a _lot_ and I'm sorry about that, but it was such a fun time (stressed as I was for due dates) and everything ran so smoothly so thank you for all you do. It's been the most spectacular event.
> 
> Disclaimers: I do not own Sweet Home Alabama, or it's plotline that this was very much derived of, as well as memorable quotes to meet the prompt I was given - it just wouldn't be Sweet Home Alabama without them. All of the Elton John songs are also not mine, and I adhered to the lyrics guidelines of ao3 to the best of my abilities. The cities of Carthage and Knightsville, Indiana are REAL places because I'm a googlemaps junky, and I apologize for all the misrepresentation I'm know my fic dished out. I'm sure the towns are lovely in real life. All name brands are also not mine: Tiffany's, Mercedes Benz Fashion Week, Ford, and all the fictional names and places referenced from Lev Grossman's novels. Thunderhead Reserve is not a real whiskey, sorry to disappoint.
> 
> If you made it this far; thank you, thank you, thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed our story as much as we loved to write it. Again, go check out Olishka's art in her ao3 posting, there's amazing goodies in there that I didn't get to squeeze into the fic. Including character bios, fic quoted gifs, a fanmix we collaborated on, and so _so_ much more. She worked her ass of, I'm in love with all of it. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading, and go check out the rest of the big bang! Amazing work by amazing creators <3


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